


like flowers the bodies tumble

by ghostinthelibrary



Series: hear the cannons calling [3]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bathing/Washing, Canon-Typical Violence, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Face-Fucking, Falling In Love, Hand Jobs, Huddling For Warmth, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Kidnapping, M/M, Multi, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Part-Elf Jaskier | Dandelion, Poisoning, Rimming, Threesome - F/M/M, Vaginal Sex, Voyeurism, idiots to lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:42:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 60,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27673528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostinthelibrary/pseuds/ghostinthelibrary
Summary: With Nilfgaard on their heels, Geralt, Jaskier, Yennefer, Ciri and Dara race to make it to Kaer Morhen before winter sets in. But Nilfgaard isn’t the only danger on the road during wartime and when Jaskier and Yennefer are separated from the others, they need to work together to find their way back to Geralt, Ciri, and Dara before it's too late.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Series: hear the cannons calling [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1773667
Comments: 216
Kudos: 274





	1. a sword in hand

**Author's Note:**

> At long last, here's the sequel to _hear the cannons calling_ that I promised by the end of the summer (November still counts as summer, right?) I would highly recommend having read _htcc_ first.

Jaskier has always considered himself a generally delightful person.

Sure, when he was growing up, he was often told he was _too much_ by his parents, his tutors, his friends, the servants, the local townsfolk, and any traveling merchants who happened to be passing through, but that was when he was young and hadn’t yet learned to contain his unbridled enthusiasm for life. As an adult, he’s learned the art of reining it in when necessary. He never wanted for friends when he was at Oxenfurt. His professors all adored him. Even once he left Oxenfurt, he’s always had a way of drawing people to him. It’s one of the reasons he charmed himself into a position in Cintra’s court and was able to stay there for a year, despite Queen Calanthe’s infamous disdain of bards.

Which is why he has no idea why Yennefer of Vengerberg hates him so fucking much.

It’s been just over three weeks since he met Geralt— though it feels like a lifetime— and he’s managed to worm his way under the witcher’s prickly exterior. It wasn’t easy, and Jaskier is still frequently convinced that he annoys the shit out of Geralt, but it’s an affectionate sort of annoyance. The fact that Jaskier regularly gets Geralt to smile at him and give him soft, loving looks seems to be a miracle sometimes. And if Jaskier has managed to win Geralt’s love, then he should have no problem at least getting Yennefer to tolerate him.

That is proving difficult.

“Bardling.” Jaskier isn’t entirely sure that Yennefer knows his name. He’s definitely introduced himself to her. Geralt, Ciri, and Dara have all referred to him by name in front of her. But still, Yennefer calls him “bardling” in the tone of voice that suggests she would be calling him something much ruder if there weren’t children present.

Still, he turns to her with a sunny smile, because he’s a gentleman and a gentleman always puts his best foot forward, even when those feet hurt terribly after an entire day of walking. “Yes, Yennefer?”

She peers down at him from the back of the chubby bay pony they bought back in Sodden. Jaskier has decided to call him Pegasus, despite Geralt’s disdain for that name. Geralt named his mare Roach; he doesn’t get an opinion on horse names.

“If you’re going to sing, at least sing something that doesn’t sound like a donkey in its death throes,” Yennefer says.

Jaskier’s jaw drops. They have a long journey ahead of them and he was simply entertaining Ciri and Dara— both of whom are unused to traveling so far on foot and are clearly exhausted— with a few of his favorite ditties. Maybe they aren’t the most complex of his repertoire, but they certainly don’t sound like a _donkey._

“What does a donkey in its death throes even sound like, Yennefer?” he asks primly.

“A lot like you just sounded.”

Ciri, the small degenerate, giggles.

“Cirilla.” Jaskier gives her a deeply wounded look. “You too?”

“Sorry.” The girl’s cheeks go pink.

“Geralt, they’re ganging up on me.” Jaskier turns to his lover with wide, beseeching eyes, because if he can trust anyone to back him up, it’s the man he brought to orgasm twice the night before.

“Hm.” Geralt’s lips twitch. “Donkeys are usually quieter.”

“How dare—”

“Bardling,” Yennefer says again. “My chaos may be gone, but I can still find a way to smite you.”

He sniffs. “I’d like to see you try.”

Her violet eyes flash. “Would you?”

In response, Jaskier hurries to catch up with Geralt, who is leading Roach by her reins while Ciri rides the normally prickly mare. Roach, who won’t even let Jaskier look at her without trying to bite him, seems only too happy to have the princess on her back. Dara trails behind them silently, putting a good deal of distance between him and the horses. The boy seems nervous around horses. Nervous around everything, really. Jaskier hopes he’ll warm up to them, but they’ve been on the road for a week now and Dara is still withdrawn around everyone who isn’t Ciri.

“When do we plan to stop for the night, dearest?” Jaskier asks Geralt.

“It will be a long time if you keep calling me dearest.”

Jaskier makes an offended little noise. “When are we planning to stop for the night, man who I’m completely indifferent to?”

Geralt gives him one of those fond looks that still seem like a small miracle. “Soon. The horses are getting tired.”

“Oh, the horses are getting tired! I’m so glad you care about the horses’ sore feet and their aching backs—”

“The horses whine less than you.”

“Geralt, honestly—” Jaskier is about to say that if Geralt is trying to make it so they never share a bed again, he’s succeeding, but then he remembers the twelve year old princess next to them. He settles for giving Geralt a poisonous look, which is returned with a smirk.

Jaskier sighs. “Listen, I know we said we weren’t going to stop in a town until we reach Ellander.”

“Correct. The head priestess of the Temple of Melitele is a friend. We’ll be safe there for a night or two.”

“But that’s at least four days’ ride away and I think we could all use a night of warm beds, and most importantly, _baths_.” Jaskier does his best to keep himself smelling fresh, but they’ve been on the road for a week and he’s running out of the powder he uses to keep his hair clean. And if he’s going to continue to share a bedroll with Geralt, the witcher definitely needs to reduce the onion smell.

“Towns are risky.”

“Everywhere is risky.” They haven’t had any trouble yet on the road, besides one encounter with a warg that was quickly dealt with by Geralt. But it’s wartime and the roads are overrun with bandits looking to take advantage of refugees fleeing Cintra, Lyria, and Aedirn. “If nothing else, we could use more rations. What we have will be a stretch if we try to make it last another four days.”

“Hm.”

“A bed would be nice,” Ciri says wistfully.

Geralt looks back at his child surprise and his expression softens. It’s really quite sweet how fond he is of Ciri after just over a week of knowing her. They’re still awkward around each other— because Geralt is awkward around everyone who isn’t Roach— but Jaskier loves watching them interact. Especially if it gets him the night in a bed he’s been dying for.

“There’s a town about a day’s ride north of here,” Geralt says after a moment’s deliberation. “I’ve stopped there before. If we can make it by nightfall tomorrow, we can stay there for a night.”

Jaskier would kiss him right there if it weren’t for their audience. Instead, he begins walking faster.

“I thought you were exhausted and needed to stop for the night,” Geralt says dryly.

“I’ve caught my second wind!” And if that second wind is due entirely to the image of having Geralt all to himself in a bed— a welcome change from the quick hands down breeches they’ve been satisfying themselves with for the past week— well, that’s no one’s business but his own.

***

The first time Geralt suggested that Yennefer learn how to use a sword, she thought he was joking. He had seemed like a sensible enough type when she met him in Rinde— wishing a djinn to help him sleep notwithstanding—but she had clearly been mistaken, because sensible men didn’t wake her up when it was still dark out because they wanted to go outside and play with swords.

“You want me to get out of bed at dawn to do _what?_ ” she asked. It was a testament to her afterglow that she wasn’t furious at being awakened so early, especially given how late he had kept her up the night before. Running into him in Kovir had seemed like a fortuitous coincidence, up until this moment.

Geralt still had his hand outstretched to her. “You have enemies,” he said. “Here and in Rinde.”

“I have enemies everywhere, witcher.” Though it was true, she had made a rare miscalculation when she had angered the local lordling. He was proving to be a problem.

“You should learn how to defend yourself.”

Yennefer arched an eyebrow. “I have no issue in that regard.”

He was undeterred by her scorn. “You might come up against a mage as powerful as you are and need a surprise up your sleeve. Or your opponent could have dimeritium. It doesn’t hurt to be prepared.”

“So you want me to learn to handle a sword?”

He got an almost boyish glint in his eyes.

“If you make a joke about your cock, I will never allow you in my bed again.”

Geralt cleared his throat and gave her a soulful look. Honestly, someone of his size should not have been able to do puppy dog eyes. It wasn’t fair. “I would feel better if you knew how to use weapons to defend yourself.”

Yennefer was not a pushover. At least, not usually. She sighed and took his hand. “Fine, what better way to spend my morning than learning a skill I’ll never use?”

His lips twitched. “We’ll see.”

Five years later, she did end up needing to use a sword on a mountaintop in the Dragon Mountains. But Geralt never had the time to be smug about it before everything went to shit.

“Yennefer?”

Yennefer abruptly surfaces from the memory and reminds herself of where she is: sitting by a fire in the middle of the woods with Ciri cross-legged on the ground next to her while Dara perches on a rock nearby, sharpening his knife. On the other side of the fire, Geralt is trying to teach Jaskier how to fight with a sword, with mixed results. The sound of the bard’s whining voice is enough to put Yennefer’s teeth on edge. 

“Geralt, my darling, light of my life, I am a poet, not a fighter. If you need me to compose verses about the way your hair looks in the moonlight or how your eyes sparkle in the morning sun—”

“Why would I want either of those things?”

“—Then I am the bard for you. But these hands aren’t made for violence.”

Geralt doesn’t look impressed, which Yennefer gives him credit for. He also doesn’t run the chattermouth bard through, which diminishes her respect for him. “We have at least two more weeks until we reach Kaer Morhen. There’s a good chance we’ll run into trouble at some point. You need to learn to defend yourself.”

“I have defended myself with a knife.”

“You got lucky both times. And if a Nilfgaardian soldier comes after you, you’ll need a sword in hand. Now stop whining.”

“It’s not working,” Ciri says and Yennefer turns to see the young princess glaring at the clover in her hand. The rock on the ground in front of her remains stubbornly still.

Reminding herself of why she’s here, Yennefer focuses on the girl in front of her. “Did Mousesack never teach you anything about chaos?”

Ciri shakes her head.

Fucking druids. “It’s all around us. In the air, in the ground, in that little clover. All magic is learning how to harness it.”

“To levitate a rock.” Ciri sounds doubtful.

“You need to learn to levitate a rock before you can hurl boulders at your enemies.”

Ciri’s face brightens. “Could I?”

In truth, Yennefer has never seen a power like Ciri’s and has no idea what the girl is capable of yet. “Let’s start with the rock and see where we go from there.”

On the other side of the clearing, she can hear steel against steel. So Geralt has somehow convinced Jaskier to spar with him. A quick glance confirms her suspicions that the bard handles a sword like a soft-handed noble dueling for a lady’s honor. It won’t do any of them much good against an opponent who means them real harm. But she supposes he won’t have much need to defend himself, so long as Geralt is there to put himself between Jaskier and danger.

“I should be able to do this by now!” Ciri sounds frustrated.

“This is only our third lesson, princess,” Yennefer reminds her. “It takes time to master these things.”

“How long did it take you?”

"Longer than a few days' of practice.

“Maybe without the clover—”

“You need the flower. Remember what I told you, magic has a price. Everything needs to be kept in balance.” Tissaia’s words from so long ago flash through her head and she repeats them. “Sometimes, the best thing a flower can do for us is die.”

“I have to say,” Jaskier calls. “Aretuza sounds like a delightful place. Really, top-notch… Melitele’s sake, Geralt, stop poking at me with that sword. Can’t you see I’m bantering?”

Yennefer takes a deep breath. “Just focus, Ciri, and try again.”

The girl grumbles, but complies. Yennefer watches her, very aware of the fact that if this goes wrong, she won’t be able to do anything to stop it. Her own powers still seem to be lost somewhere inside of her after Sodden Hill, locked behind a door she can’t find. Whenever she tries to access her powers, things go badly wrong. She has no way of knowing how long it will take the chaos inside her to right itself. Until it does, she can only hope that no Nilfgaardian agents catch up to them.

A stone pokes into her thigh and Yennefer winces and shifts to the side. Freed, the stone floats into the air. Dara tumbles to the ground with a cry as the large rock he’s been sitting on levitates off the ground. All around them, everything from tiny pebbles to a boulder hover in the air. Yennefer glances at the clover in Ciri’s hand. It’s still alive.

“Well,” Yennefer says, mouth suddenly dry. “I’d say you’ve gotten the hang of the levitating part.”

“Melitele’s sweet bottom,” Jaskier breathes, breaking the moment and all the rocks crash back to the ground. Dara just manages to yank his hand away to stop it from getting crushed under the rock he was just sitting on.

“Fuck.” Geralt looks around. “Everyone okay? Dara?”

“Fine.” The elven boy’s face is ruddy from embarrassment as he scrambles to his feet, like nearly getting crushed by a rock is something to be sheepish about.

Yennefer rubs her sore thigh. “I think that’s enough for the day.”

“I’m sorry.” Ciri’s face is red and she looks like she might cry. “I didn’t mean to levitate them all.”

“Don’t be sorry.” Yennefer brushes a lock of hair out of her face. They really need to get her to a proper barber— the hack job Jaskier gave her in an attempt to disguise her as a boy is too long in the front. “You did well. You have the raw power. Now we just need to teach you control.”

The girl offers her a faint, watery smile.

“Now, go rest,” Yennefer tells her. “We have a long day tomorrow if we want to reach civilization.”

Ciri goes to join Dara and Yennefer looks at the rock that Ciri was just trying to levitate. It lies next to the piece of abandoned clover. Checking around to make sure that no one is watching her, Yennefer picks up the piece of clover and focuses on the rock. She tries to picture herself as fourteen again on her first day of Aretuza, standing in a circle with Fringilla, Sabrina, and the other girls. She tries to recapture that moment where her rock lifted into the air and she knew that this was real, that she could really do magic. A century later, and she’s still never felt as powerful as she did in that moment.

The rock shudders, then cracks into pieces. When Yennefer looks at the clover in her hand, she sees that it has shriveled and died.

***

Jaskier throws his sword on the ground and collapses into his bedroll, breathing heavily. “Geralt, are you trying to kill me before the Nilfgaardians get a chance?”

Geralt looks down at his lover, who is sweaty, rumpled, and flushed. Jaskier shouldn’t look nearly as appealing as he does right now. “I’m making sure the Nilfgaardians don’t get the chance.”

“I’m not going to be able to lift my arms tomorrow, and it’s going to be all your fault. Just leave me here to die. Promise me you’ll remember me fondly.”

Geralt’s lips twitch. Jaskier popped several buttons on his chemise while they were sparring and a generous amount of chest hair is on display. “Hm, too bad. I could use your help collecting more wood for the fire.”

Jaskier immediately scrambles to his feet. “Well, who am I to deny a friend in need? Would you look at how low that fire is? Seems like we need the wood desperately. Come on, Geralt, you’ll need to do most of the heavy lifting, since I was recently subjected to the foulest of tortures—”

Geralt meets Yennefer’s eyes. From the look on her face, she knows exactly what Jaskier and Geralt are actually up to when they go off to collect firewood every night and she’s judging them for it. With a sheepish shrug, Geralt follows Jaskier into the woods, keeping on alert. There’s nothing dangerous in the trees around them, but that doesn’t mean that Geralt can truly let his guard down, no matter how much he wants to when it comes to spending time with Jaskier.

As soon as they’re far enough away from the campsite that Yennefer and the children won’t be able to hear them, Geralt pulls Jaskier close and kisses him.

“Mmm.” Jaskier nuzzles into the kiss. “Was that what the sparring was? Your attempt at seduction?”

“You don’t need much seducing.”

“Are you implying that I’m easy, witcher?”

Geralt nips at his lower lip. “Yes.”

“I will have you know—”

Geralt swallows down the words with another kiss. In another life, one where he and Jaskier had met under different, less violent circumstances and hadn’t spent most of their acquaintance running for their lives, he could do this all day. He could hold Jaskier and kiss him senseless, take his time learning every inch of him. He could luxuriate in the way Jaskier’s mouth feels against his, the way he leans his whole weight against Geralt, utterly trusting, the way his hands tangle in Geralt’s hair.

But in this life, they don’t have the time to take things slow, so Geralt fumbles at the laces of his breeches with one hand while untying Jaskier’s with the other.

“It’s cold, dear heart,” Jaskier murmurs. “I might not be up to the task. Gods, I can’t wait to have you in a proper bed.”

“I’ll warm you up.” Geralt’s cock is already hard when he pulls it out— it has been since halfway through their sparring match. Jaskier looks damn good holding a sword. “You say I was trying to seduce you when you were the one undressing yourself.”

“I was warm, Geralt! I was wearing a lot of layers.”

“Hm. Not anymore, I see.” Geralt’s palms Jaskier’s cock, still soft, and pulls it out of his breeches. He spits into his hand, wrapping it around both of their cocks. Under his palm, he can feel Jaskier twitching with interest.

“I would never use sparring to seduce you.” Jaskier looks up with him with a look of utmost innocence. It wouldn’t be convincing, even if Geralt didn’t know him so well. “I take self-defense very serious—”

His words break off in a moan as Geralt starts to stroke. Warmed by Geralt’s hand and his cock, Jaskier is fully hard now. The sight of it pressed against Geralt’s own length is enough to make Geralt’s mouth water. After days on the road with no baths except for a couple quick dips in ice-cold streams, a quick hand down the breeches is the most they can offer each other, but Geralt can’t wait to get his mouth on Jaskier’s pretty cock.

“Just think, tomorrow night, you’re going to have me in an actual bed,” Jaskier breathes into his ear.

“Hm, we’ll be sharing a room with three other people.”

“Ugh, don’t ruin the fantasy, Geralt.”

Geralt presses a kiss to the side of Jaskier’s neck. Under his lips, Jaskier’s pulse is racing. “Alright, a room to ourselves. What would we do?”

“Well, first, you would be taking a bath.”

“And you wouldn’t?”

“Are you saying I smell?”

“What happened to not ruining the fantasy?”

Jaskier laughs, sounding a little breathless. “Well, first, I would want to get that gorgeous cock in my mouth. You’ve been taking such good care of me these last few days and it’s time I return the favor.”

Geralt pictures it, Jaskier’s soft lips wrapped around his cock, his cheeks hollowed out as he sucks, and feels the heat start to build in his belly.

“And then you could fuck me, any way you want. I could ride your cock, or I could be on all fours and you could fuck me from behind.”

Both sound like damn good options. He can picture Jaskier’s pert little ass in the air as he’s on his hands and knees in front of Geralt. But he can also picture Jaskier’s head thrown back and his mouth open in pleasure as he bounces up and down on Geralt’s cock.

“Or maybe.” Jaskier’s hand slides down to squeeze Geralt’s ass. “I could fuck you.”

Geralt’s breath hitches in his throat.

Jaskier strokes a hand down Geralt’s thigh. “Oh, you like that idea? You want to ride me, Geralt? You want me inside of you, filling you up?”

That’s all it takes for Geralt to come with a groan. Bracing his hand against the tree behind Jaskier, he quickens his pace, stroking Jaskier’s cock until the bard is too breathless to speak. When Jaskier comes with a soft cry, he collapses against Geralt. Geralt holds him like that for a long moment, breathing in the scent of him. Jaskier is warm in his arms and Geralt wishes they could stay like this all night, holding each other.

“We should get back,” Jaskier murmurs. “The others are waiting for actual wood.”

“Hm.” Geralt doesn’t move. He still has both their softened cocks in his hand.

Jaskier nuzzles at his jaw. “Tomorrow night, my love.”

It’s a nice fantasy, and Geralt lets himself enjoy it for another moment before he lets Jaskier go. They clean themselves up and find some fallen branches for firewood.

“You know, you were right about one thing,” Jaskier says as they head back to the camp side by side. Through the trees, Geralt can see the flickering light of the campfire.

“Hm?”

Jaskier sends him what he probably thinks is a roguish wink, which looks more like a muscle spasm. “I needed a sword in hand.”

***

Dara and Ciri are asleep, curled up together on their bedrolls, when Geralt and Jaskier return from “gathering firewood.” Both men have a spring in their step and far too little firewood given how long they were gone.

Yennefer fixes them with an unimpressed look. “I take it your journey was a success?”

“Oh, yes,” Jaskier says. “A lot of great wood out there.”

Geralt snorts and shakes his head. When he looks down at Ciri and Dara, his eyes go soft.

“What happened earlier with the rocks,” he says in an undertone. “Was that normal?”

Yennefer reaches out to tuck Ciri’s cloak around her. “When it comes to your child surprise, I don’t think much is normal. She should have been trained at Aretuza.”

“She has you. That’s just as good.”

Yennefer swallows back the sudden tightness in her throat. She hates that his faith in her still manages to touch her, even after all these years. “It will have to be, since we’re a long way from Aretuza. I’ll take the first watch.”

His brow furrows. “I can—”

“I’m fully capable of staying awake for the next couple of hours and making sure no one tries to slit our throats in our sleep.” She goes to settle down against a tree. “Go to sleep, Geralt. You’ve had an exhausting evening of gathering firewood.”

Geralt grunts. “Just wake me up when you’re ready for bed.”

“Of course.” Yennefer wraps her fur-lined cloak around herself and sits there with a dagger in her lap as Jaskier and Geralt settle down on Geralt’s bedroll. Yennefer watches as Geralt wraps Jaskier up in his arms, pulling the bard close. Jaskier snuggles into him. Yennefer remembers how warm Geralt always is. She knows he must be pleasant to sleep next to on a cold night like this.

She sits there, holding a knife in her lap, and listens to the sounds of the woods around her as Jaskier and Geralt drop off to sleep. Jaskier immediately begins to snore, because he’s incapable of quiet, even in his sleep. Yennefer rolls her eyes and wonders if Geralt would notice if she found a convenient cliff to shove his bard off. He probably would. Damnable witcher senses.

For a long time, everything is quiet except for the distant hooting of owls, Jaskier’s snores, and the others’ breathing. Then a scream rends the air.

Yennefer feels the scream in her whole body. The chaos in her reacts to it, causing the hairs all over her body to stand on end. She looks up to see Ciri sitting up on her bedroll, eyes wild and unseeing. Yennefer starts towards the girl, lest she scream again and do real damage.

But Jaskier gets there first.

“Ciri,” she hears him murmur. “Darling, it’s okay. You’re okay.”

Ciri presses her face against Jaskier’s shoulder to muffle her weeping.

“It’s okay,” Jaskier says again. “It was just a dream. We’re all here and you’re safe.”

Yennefer meets Geralt’s gaze across the campfire and sees the same helplessness she’s feeling reflected in his eyes. They can do everything they can to protect Ciri from Nilfgaard. They can dress her as a boy and take her to Kaer Morhen. But they can’t undo the damage that’s been done. They can’t give her their life or their family back. They can’t give her back a sense of safety.

No matter what they do, Yennefer fears it will never be enough.

***


	2. the coward's option

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“My given name is Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove.”  
>  Yennefer stares at the bard flatly. “So you’re a viscount. How does that help us?”  
> Jaskier puffs out his chest. “I’m not just some traveling bard. If I haven’t been disowned, I’m twenty-third in line for the Redanian throne.”  
> Well, there’s a terrifying thought. Yennefer wishes twenty-two Redanian nobles continued good health. “Again, how does that help us?”  
> For a moment, Jaskier looks unsure. “I can help with Ciri.”  
> “Of course. If she needs to learn what fork to use at the dinner table, I’ll be sure to come get you.”  
> “She’s a princess, Yennefer. She probably knew what fork to use before she could talk.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Thanksgiving, US friends!
> 
> Content warnings for discussion of suicide relating to the fall of Cintra, non-consensual drugging, and vomiting in end notes.

By the time they reach the tiny one-inn town where they’re stopping for the night, Yennefer has to admit— to herself, not out loud— that she’s relieved that Jaskier’s incessant whining has granted her a reprieve from sleeping on the ground. She has a crick in her neck the likes of which she hasn’t experienced since her ascension and no way to magic it away. A night in a bed and a bath sounds like heaven, even if the establishment is less-than-desirable.

“Only four allowed per room.” The innkeeper alternates between leering at Yennefer and scowling up at Geralt suspiciously. They’ve attempted to make Geralt look inconspicuous by hiding his wolf’s head medallion, storing his swords in his saddlebags, and covering up his white hair with a hood, but they can do nothing about his imposing size or his slit-pupiled eyes. “You’ll need two rooms if you’re going to stay here.”

He’s clearly expecting that to be the end of it, thinking that they’ll scurry away to find another place to stay the night. He underestimates Jaskier’s stubbornness. The bard exchanges looks with Geralt, then slides a handful of coins across the counter. “That should cover two rooms and two baths.”

The innkeeper doesn’t bother counting the money. “I’d say you’re about fifty crowns short.”

“Fifty crowns?” Jaskier grits his teeth into a pantomime of a smile. “I’m an Oxenfurt-trained bard, my good man. Perhaps we can work something out.”

Yennefer is grudgingly impressed by Jaskier’s negotiation skills. He manages to haggle away those fifty extra crowns, as well as exchange a night of music for his and the children’s suppers.

“If that’s settled,” Jaskier says, somehow managing to convey both cheer and ice cold disdain. “My sister and my nephews have had a long journey. Look at the poor dears. Nearly dead on their feet.”

Yennefer loathes their cover story, that she and Jaskier are siblings who have hired Geralt to guide their family safely to Kaedwen. She doesn’t know what she’s more annoyed by— the implication that she and Jaskier could be mistaken for siblings, or that she looks old enough to be Ciri and Dara’s mother. In fact, she’s old enough to be their great-grandmother, but she hardly _looks_ more than twenty-five. But the argument must work on the innkeeper, because he hands over the two room keys with a sour expression on his face.

“Any trouble and you’re out on your ass,” he tells Geralt, like Geralt couldn’t crush his skull with one hand.

Geralt only grunts in response and they start up the stairs.

“This is the place where you’ve stayed before?” Jaskier hisses at Geralt.

Geralt shrugs. “I never said it was nice, but I’ve never been denied a room, so long as I had enough coin. No one’s ever put anything worse than spit in my ale or my food and I’ve never been stoned out of town.”

Jaskier swells with righteous fury and for once, Yennefer knows exactly how he’s feeling. She remembers the first time she was with Geralt when he was turned away from an inn by an innkeeper who called him a mutant and a demon. Yennefer had her hand raised, a curse on the tip of her fingers, when Geralt looped an arm around her waist and swept her outside before she could let it loose.

“It’s not worth it,” he told her. “It won’t change his mind.”

“I don’t give a fuck about changing his mind.” Yennefer was incandescent with rage, mostly because of how unsurprised Geralt seemed. Only moments before, he had been smiling, eyes hot with the promise of getting her into bed. Now, he seemed tired and very, very old.

His lips twitched into the smallest of smiles and brushed an imaginary strand of hair from her face. “It doesn’t matter, Yenn. We’ll make do with camping outside.”

And they did. They fucked under the stars and Yennefer didn’t even mind when she had to magic away the bug bites on her ass the next morning. But she never forgot that innkeeper’s thoughtless cruelty.

If that inn happened to burn down later, Yennefer knew nothing about it.

“Hey, witcher!”

In front of Yennefer, Geralt stops on the stairs, shoulders going tense.

“You are a witcher, ain’t you?” Yennefer looks over her shoulder to see a burly dark-haired man at the bottom of the stairs.

“Hm.” Geralt reaches out and puts one hand on Ciri’s shoulder, like he’s ready to push her behind him at the first sign of trouble. Jaskier shifts to the right to block her from view.

“Got work for you,” the man says. “Something’s been killing my sheep.”

“Fuck,” Geralt says, so quietly that the man probably can’t hear it. They’re trying to avoid notice in the towns they pass through, but a witcher refusing work would be even more memorable than a witcher killing whatever beast is targeting this man’s sheep. To Jaskier and Yennefer, he adds, “Go into the rooms and lock the doors.”

Jaskier looks like he wants to protest, but Yennefer grabs the bard by the arm and yanks him after her up the stairs. The last thing Geralt needs is his foolish bard making a spectacle of himself.

The room is as depressing as the rest of the place. Two lumpy mattresses on the floor are the only furniture in the room, along with a large metal bucket that Yennefer assumes is the tub. Yennefer nudges one of the mattresses with her foot. “Well, this was certainly worth all our coin.”

“You’ll be singing a different tune once we’ve all had baths. I don’t know about you, but I’m tired of being able to smell myself.” Jaskier presses the second room key into Dara’s hand. “Why don’t you two go check out your room? It’s right across the hall. Maybe it’s nicer than this one.”

Both children look skeptical, but they comply and head across the hall.

Yennefer crosses her arms over her chest. “Have something to say, bardling?”

Jaskier sighs. “I thought we should talk about Ciri’s education.”

Her eyebrows draw together. “And?”

“You seem to have her magical education covered.”

“Why, thank you. That means so much coming from someone with the magical ability of a mop.”

Jaskier visibly restrains himself from sniping back. “But she’s still the heir to the Cintran throne. There’s other things she needs to learn besides magic. I’d be happy to help you with those lessons.”

“What on earth would you help with? She doesn't need music lessons anymore, bard. Being able to hit a high note doesn’t win wars.”

“My given name is Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove.”

Yennefer stares at the bard flatly. “So you’re a viscount. How does that help us?”

Jaskier puffs out his chest. “I’m not just some traveling bard. If I haven’t been disowned, I’m twenty-third in line for the Redanian throne.”

Well, there’s a terrifying thought. Yennefer wishes twenty-two Redanian nobles continued good health. “Again, how does that help us?”

For a moment, Jaskier looks unsure. “I can help with Ciri.”

“Of course. If she needs to learn what fork to use at the dinner table, I’ll be sure to come get you.”

“She’s a princess, Yennefer. She probably knew what fork to use before she could talk.”

“It’s a moot point, because there’s currently no kingdom for Ciri to be queen of,” Yennefer snaps. “Cintra is gone, Jaskier. The villages have been sacked. The citizens have been slaughtered. Most of the nobility are dead at their own hand.”

Jaskier flinches and Yennefer remembers that he lived through the slaughter in Cintra.

“You’re a bard,” she tells him. “Stick to singing songs and gathering wood. I’ll handle Ciri’s education.”

She leaves him spluttering in indignation, letting the door slam behind her.

***

Jaskier is so relieved when two girls with buckets come to fill the tub that he doesn’t even mind that the tub is rusted or that the water is lukewarm, at best. He lays out his green doublet and matching breeches— his one set of clothes that haven’t been irreparably destroyed in the last three weeks— on the bed and strips down to his smallclothes to wash the shirt and breeches he stole from the farmhouse in Sodden. Once he’s laid them out to dry, he rifles through his pack to find his bar of soap and his chamomile and lavender oils.

The bottle he pulls out of his pack isn’t either of his oils.

Jaskier’s blood goes cold. The sight of the small, inconspicuous glass vial brings him right back to that terrible final night in Cintra, holding it to his closed lips as he smelled the smoke of the city burning and listened to the screams in the distance. He remembers his terror, his certainty that he was going to die, his grief. He remembers the soldiers who surrounded him when he tried to escape. _“Sing us a song, bardling. Make it good. It will be your last song.”_

Part of him wants to dash it to the floor, permanently get rid of the reminder of that fear and helplessness. But he also remembers kneeling in the middle of a Nilfgaardian camp with Cahir’s sword at his throat and knowing that if it came down to it, he wouldn’t be able to withstand torture. Jaskier won’t ever allow himself to be used against Geralt or Ciri. He’s not a witcher or a sorceress, but he won’t be a liability.

Hands shaking, he slips the poison back into his bag and retrieves his soap and his oils.

“Jask, it’s me.” There’s a short, sharp knock on the door and Jaskier takes a deep breath, trying to rid himself of the vestiges of dread. He finds Geralt on the other side of the door, wearing an annoyed expression.

“Fucking idiot,” Geralt grumbles, stalking into the room. “All he could tell me about the monster is that it’s a ‘big, mean-looking fucker with wings.’ Could be a lesser vampire. Could be a wyvern. Could be a griffin. Could be a half-dozen other things.”

“How much coin for this mystery beast?” Jaskier asks.

“A hundred fifty crowns.” Geralt goes over to the bath and sticks his hand in, wrinkling his nose at the tepid water. With a flick of his wrist, he casts Igni, making the water steam.

“Better than what you got for that kikimore in Cintra,” Jaskier says.

“Hm.” Geralt jerks his head in acknowledgement. “I said I’d stake out his farm tonight, make sure nothing takes any of his animals during the night. You can take the first bath. I’ll bathe when I get back.”

“Excellent.” Jaskier forces his voice into a pantomime of chipperness, even as his plans for the evening drain away before his eyes. Gods, he just wanted a night in a bed with Geralt, a chance to continue properly learning his lover’s body in a way he can’t with their quick rendezvous in the woods.

Geralt must hear the strained note in his voice because he turns to him with a frown. “Sorry, Jask.”

“Think nothing of it.” Jaskier waves a dismissive hand. “We need the coin. And I’ll be busy anyway with my performance in the tavern.”

He peels off his smallclothes, taking his time to give Geralt a chance to appreciate the view, and slips into the tub with a contented sigh. The tub is still too small for a proper soak, but the Igni improved the quality of the bath significantly. He closes his eyes and leans back, trying to pretend that he’s in the luxurious bathhouse of the Cintran palace. He can hear Geralt puttering around the room.

“I tried to offer to help Yennefer with Ciri’s education,” Jaskier tells him.

Geralt grunts in acknowledgement.

“Yes, it went about as well as you expect.”

“You can’t do magic.”

“Well aware, Geralt, but I do have other skills, you know.” Jaskier opens his eyes to see his lover’s smirk. “Get that look off your face, you lecher. I’m talking about the seven liberal arts. Math. Science. Politics. Art. All important things for a future queen to learn.”

“When we get to Kaer Morhen, we can talk about it. Not much use for politics and art on the road.”

Sometimes, Jaskier wonders if there’s any use for _him_ on the road. “I don’t think Yennefer likes me.”

Most people would protest that of course Yennefer likes Jaskier, how could she not, and then delicately change the subject. But Geralt isn’t most people, so he just shoots Jaskier a raised eyebrow that seems to say, _“You think?”_

Jaskier sighs. “I know the two of you used to be lovers—”

“That’s not why she doesn’t like you,” Geralt says. “Yenn doesn’t like a lot of people. Don’t take it personally.”

“It’s hard not to take it personally when we’re traveling together and I have to see her all the time.”

“Do you want me to talk to her?” Geralt sounds so uncomfortable at the prospect that it makes Jaskier feel a little better. Geralt is one of the bravest people he knows, and even he doesn’t want to have the “why do you hate Jaskier?” conversation with Yennefer.

“No, I don’t think that will help, dear heart, but thank you.” Jaskier lathers up the soap and scrubs it through his hair. He misses the fine soaps he had in Cintra— using the same soap for his hair and for his body hurts his soul— but one has to make do on the road.

“Can I?” He doesn’t realize Geralt is right behind him until Geralt’s fingers close around the bar of soap in Jaskier’s grasp.

Jaskier hands over the bar of soap, a bit confused, until Geralt’s deft fingers begin scrubbing through his hair. With a sigh, Jaskier leans into the touch. Geralt is very, very good with his hands, as he’s proved multiple times over the last couple of weeks, but Jaskier is still constantly surprised by how tender Geralt can be. He closes his eyes and lets himself enjoy his hair being washed.

“Rinse,” Geralt says and Jaskier ducks under the water to rinse his hair. When he emerges, Geralt greets him with a kiss.

“I can’t promise Yennefer will warm up to you, because she doesn’t warm up to many people,” Geralt murmurs. “But I can promise you that we can trust her. She would never cause you any harm.”

“Ah, so she might not push me off a cliff herself, but she’ll just stand by and watch as I plummet to my death.”

Geralt huffs out a laugh against his shoulder. “You don’t have to worry about cliffs until we get to the Blue Mountains.”

“So reassuring, Geralt. Thank you.” But Jaskier leans into Geralt’s touch as he begins massaging chamomile oil into Jaskier’s hair. “It may be the coward’s option, but I think I’ll just try to stay away from Yennefer from now on, as much as is possible. My attempts to befriend her only seem to strengthen her dislike for me.”

Geralt hums in what might be agreement.

“At least I have your affection.” Jaskier twists to flutter his eyelashes at Geralt.

Geralt rolls his eyes, the effect somewhat belied by the unabashed fondness on his face. “Don’t push your luck.”

“Oh please.” Jaskier captures Geralt’s hand in his and presses a kiss to his knuckles. “I think we’ve established at this point that under all that armor, you’re soft as anything. I think there may be a song there.”

“One you’ll never sing.”

“Maybe not if you give me something better to do with my mouth.” Jaskier wiggles his eyebrows.

Geralt shakes his head and straightens up, gently pulling his hand from Jaskier’s. “I hopefully shouldn’t be out too late.”

“And you’ll be careful?” Geralt may look imposing and untouchable in his armor, but Jaskier remembers all too well what he looks like when he’s injured. Jaskier never wants to witness that again.

Geralt nods. “You too.”

“I have no plans to leave the inn. How much trouble could I get in?”

“It worries me when you say things like that.”

Jaskier smiles up at him and stretches languidly, feeling a flush of arousal as Geralt’s eyes roam over him. “Dear heart, you really have no faith in me sometimes.”

***

The lute playing downstairs is clearly audible in the room Yennefer is sharing with Ciri and Dara. Every merry note puts Yennefer’s teeth on edge. She’s perched on the edge of her bed,trying to detangle her wet hair with a comb— and damn if long hair isn’t harder to deal with without magic; how do most women fucking deal with this— and grits her teeth as there’s another warble down below.

“He’s singing ‘Fishmonger’s Daughter,’” Ciri says wistfully. “Maybe I could go down, just for a bit?”

Yennefer does not understand what the young princess’s infatuation is with that stupid song. “The fewer people that lay eyes on you, the less likely you are to be recognized.”

“But I’m dressed as a boy! No one’s looking for Fion, they’re looking for Princess Cirilla.”

“You know we can’t risk it.” Yennefer feels a twinge of guilt at the sadness on Ciri’s face. “Why don’t I go get us something to eat from downstairs?”

Both children brighten at that, their boredom eased by the promise of food.

Too late, it occurs to Yennefer that going to get food will mean she’ll have to witness Jaskier’s performance, but they need to eat. Brushing her damp hair out of her face, she rises to her feet. “Lock the door behind me.”

Downstairs, she finds the tavern near-empty, save for a pair of old drunks at the bar, a table full of men by the door, and Jaskier. Still, Jaskier plays like he’s singing to a cheering audience. He stands in the center of the room, one foot propped up on a stool, and belts out a raunchy love song that Yennefer hopes Ciri and Dara can’t hear. His green doublet is unbuttoned to show obscene amounts of chest hair and he wiggles his hips when he gets to a particularly saucy bit.

They’re nice hips, Yennefer thinks absently, and then decides it’s been far too long since she’s had a good fuck if she’s looking at the minstrel’s assets.

She pointedly ignores Jaskier and his assets as she crosses the tavern to the bar. She feels the table of men turning to look at her; their gazes slide over her skin like oil. Keeping her back ramrod straight and her gaze ahead, she pays them no mind. She is used to not considering her own vulnerability as the lone woman in a room full of men— after all, when she has control of her chaos, there are few men who are a match for it. But as she goes to the bar and orders three plates of food and an ale from the barkeep, feeling the men’s eyes on her back the entire time, she’s acutely aware of her lack of powers.

“Sister dear!” Jaskier cries and she turns to see him grinning at her, cheeks flushed and eyes bright with merriment.

Yennefer takes her ale and approaches him, lest he shout across the tavern again and draw more attention to her. “What are you doing?” she hisses.

“Why, entertaining all these lovely people, of course!” Jaskier gestures expansively around the room, though his gaze flickers to the table in the corner and it occurs to her that he’s trying to protect her from those leering gazes. Annoyance flashes through her.

She grits her teeth and leans into his space. He must have bathed; he smells like lavender and chamomile. “You’re drawing attention to yourself.”

“As any good performer does.” He smirks and drops into the nearest chair, taking a long drink of his ale. “What did you think, Yennefer?”

“What did I think of what?”

“My performance, of course. Come on, sit down and give me three words or less.”

Yennefer smiles at him sweetly as she lowers herself into the chair across from him. “I only need one word, bardling. Forgettable.”

Jaskier’s outraged sputter almost makes coming down here worth it. “I… why, no one else has been complaining!”

“That’s because they all left,” one of the old drunks at the bar calls and Yennefer wishes she had the coin to buy him a drink.

Jaskier’s face turns purple and he grumbles, “You’re no longer my most favorite sibling.”

“How will I survive?”

“My lady?” The barkeep approaches, holding an ale. The table of men are back to staring at her avidly.

Yennefer barely manages to resist rolling her eyes. “I didn’t order another ale.”

“Compliments from the men across the bar.” He puts it in front of her.

She doesn’t touch it. “I don’t want this.”

“But I do.” Jaskier seizes it and drains half of it in one enormous gulp, then toasts the men, who scowl at him murderously.

Yennefer raises an eyebrow at the barkeep. “I did order three plates of food for myself and my sons.”

“Of course, my lady.” He hurries away.

She turns back to Jaskier. “I don’t need you to defend my honor, bardling.”

“I would never dream of trying to defend your honor, Yennefer.” Jaskier takes another sip of ale.

Yennefer wonders how long it takes to make three fucking plates of food. It’s not like it’s being cooked fresh. “I can handle a few degenerates in a bar, if it comes to it.”

“How?”

“How would you?” she demands. “Your swordplay skills are laughable.”

Jaskier splutters. “Well, as delightful as this conversation is, I do have an adoring audience to get back to.” He drains the rest of his ale in one gulp and stands up, then stumbles and nearly drops his lute. Only a quick save on Yennefer’s part stops it from crashing to the ground.

“Yennefer!” Jaskier cries, taking her face in his hands. “You glorious, beautiful creature, I could kiss you!”

“Calm yourself, _brother,_ ” she hisses, trying to remind him with her eyes that they’re pretending to be brother and sister and he shouldn’t be shouting her name in the middle of taverns.

His hands are very soft, except for lute-callused fingertips. She doesn’t know why she notices that.

“I take back what i said before. You are now my favorite of our siblings.”

Yennefer frowns up at him. He’s drunk, slurring his words and swaying slightly from side to side. Only moments ago, he seemed just a bit tipsy.

The smile abruptly falls off Jaskier’s face. “Mm, fuck. Think I’m gonna be sick.”

“Don’t you dare,” Yennefer growls. The innkeeper will probably make them sleep in the stables if Jaskier vomits all over the place.

Jaskier clasps his hand over his mouth.

“Fuck.” Yennefer grabs him by the arm and hauls him towards the door. The two drunks at the bar jeer as she drags him by them. No sooner are they outside the tavern than Jaskier doubles over and empties the contents of his stomach onto the ground. Yennefer backs away, wrinkling her nose in disgust.

“What is wrong with you?” she demands when he’s done. “Getting drunk and making a spectacle—”

He loses his balance and goes to his knees, just barely managing to avoid falling in the puddle of his own vomit. “Something’s wrong.”

Yennefer realizes that she’s still holding his lute and puts it down, leaning it against the wall out of range of his retching. Though it would serve him right to puke on his most prized possession. “What’s wrong is that you’re a complete and utter—”

“No.” He looks up at her with watery eyes. “That was only my second ale, Yennefer. It shouldn’t have hit me so fast. Something was wrong with it.”

Jaskier turns and retches again. Yennefer stares down at his heaving back, suddenly cold. “Those fucking—”

Her words are cut off by the sound of footsteps crunching behind her. She doesn’t have time to say a word before someone seizes her around the middle and a bag is slipped over her head, plunging her into darkness.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: Jaskier finds the poison he almost drank in Cintra in his pack and has a brief flashback to the fall of Cintra. He decides to keep the bottle of poison in case he's captured. If you'd like to skip it, stop reading at the paragraph that begins, "The bottle he pulls out of his pack" and start reading again at, "Jask, it's me."
> 
> A group of men slip a drug into Yennefer's drink with the intent of kidnapping her, but Jaskier drinks her ale instead and is sick to his stomach as a result. The vomiting isn't graphic, but if you'd like to skip it, stop reading at "Jaskier clasps his hand over his mouth" and start reading again at "Her words are cut off."


	3. just a bard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“That’s her, alright.” One of the men leers at Yennefer. “She fits the description. That’s Yennefer of Vengerberg.”  
>  Well, fuck. Yennefer’s suspicions that there would be a price on her head after Sodden Hill have been confirmed. She glares up at the man who hired Geralt. If the witcher has come to harm…  
> “Who’s he?” The sheep farmer— who Yennefer guesses isn’t actually a sheep farmer— jerks his chin at Jaskier.  
> “Just a bard,” another man says.  
> Yennefer hears Jaskier’s death warrant in the words. _Just a bard._ Bards aren’t worth taking hostage. Jaskier must know too, because his breaths start coming faster.  
> “The fuck did you take him for?” the fake sheep farmer demands.  
> “Dunno, he was with her. Thought he could be collateral.”  
> “Get rid of him. Don’t need any complications.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for discussion of non-consensual drugging. In addition, while there are no stated threats of non-con, there are several moments where Yennefer and Geralt are concerned about the possibility. Please proceed with caution.

After hours spent staking out the farm, waiting for this mysterious flying creature to attack the livestock, Geralt has seen no sign of any monster— no tracks, no scat, no blood or body parts. The sheep and goats in the paddock seem calm and uninterested in Geralt or their surroundings. Geralt stands at the treeline and watches the paddock, listening to the woods around him.

Longingly, he thinks of a warm bath, a warm bed, and Jaskier. If no creature shows up, he’ll have given up a night of comfort for nothing.

Footsteps approach and Geralt turns as two figures emerge from the trees. They’re both young and human, a boy and a girl. From the way they’re giggling and leaning against each other and the strong smell of lust and too-sweet wine about them, it’s clear what they were up to in the woods.

The lad, a skinny boy of hardly eighteen with a spotty chin and a wispy attempt at a beard, catches sight of Geralt. He pushes the girl behind him and barks in what would be an authoritative voice if it didn’t crack with fear, “You there! What’s your business here?”

Geralt turns to them, keeping his hands at his sides so they can see he has no weapons. “I’ve been hired to take care of the creature stealing your sheep. Mean no harm.”

“What creature?” the girl asks at the same time the boy demands, “You’re a witcher?”

The girl gives off an air of being somewhat more sensible than her beau, so Geralt turns to her. “Was told there was some kind of flying creature snatching sheep.”

The girl frowns at him. “We’ve been having no trouble with our sheep. Lost a couple chickens to a fox last month, but we took care of that ourselves with a snare.”

“Your father said otherwise.”

She shakes her head. “My da’s a soldier, witcher, sir. My brothers too. They’re off fighting the Nilfs. It’s just me, my sisters, and Ma.”

“And me too.” The boy puffs his chest out and eyes Geralt balefully, like he’s thinking of challenging him to a fight. Since his waist is the width of Geralt’s bicep, Geralt isn’t too concerned.

Maybe Geralt is in the wrong place, though the man’s directions were clear— the sheep farm about two miles to the west of town. “Is there another farm around here that’s had sheep stolen?”

The girl shakes her head. “Only other farm around here is Old Henrick’s place, and he doesn’t raise sheep.”

Fuck. Geralt doesn’t take the time to thank them. There are two good reasons that someone would try to lure him to a farm outside of town and keep him there for hours, and he left them both at the inn. If someone recognized Ciri or Yennefer, Geralt left them undefended. 

He sprints the two miles back to the town and bursts into the inn, heart beating far faster than a witcher’s should. Jaskier isn’t in the tavern; it’s empty except for the barkeep and two old drunks at the bar. One of the drunks calls something rude as Geralt runs past. Ignoring him, Geralt charges up the stairs and finds the innkeeper pounding on Ciri, Dara, and Yennefer’s door.

The innkeeper turns on Geralt, face purple with anger. “Fucking brats have the door jam—”

Geralt slams him against the wall, satisfied as the man’s scent goes sour with fear. “What the fuck do you want with them?”

The man’s face drains of color and he stammers something unintelligible.

“Why were you trying to get into their room?” Geralt can hear two too-fast heartbeats on the other side of the door. There should be at least three.

“This is my inn!” the man manages to squeak.

Geralt snarls in his face and the scent of urine joins the fear.

“The bard!” the man says. “He promised to sing for his supper, but he stormed out in the middle of his set with his sister.”

“What happened?” Geralt demands.

The innkeeper whimpers. “I don’t know! All I know is that he ate his dinner, drank some ale, sang a few songs, then just left! You’re going to have to pay full price for your rooms if he doesn’t come back here and—”

“I don’t give a fuck about the rooms. When was this?”

“An hour or so ago.”

Geralt shoves him away. “Leave.”

“This is my—”

“ _Leave._ And if you come near this room again, the inn will need a new proprietor.”

The innkeeper turns and bolts down the steps. Geralt takes a deep breath, trying to school the fury out of his expression, then knocks on the door. “It’s me.”

There’s the sound of furniture shifting and Dara opens the door, face ashen.

“What happened?” Geralt asks.

He must not do a very good job of not looking angry, because Dara flinches. “Yennefer went to get us dinner and never came back. Jaskier stopped singing right after she left.”

Ciri appears behind Dara. “She said she would only be gone for a few minutes!”

Geralt schools the panic out of his expression. “Block the door. I’ll be right back.”

He starts to turn, but Ciri reaches out and grabs his arm. “You’ll actually come back, right?”

She looks very young and Geralt is reminded of how many people in her life have not come back recently. He pulls her into a one-armed hug. “I’ll be back, Ciri.”

She nods and steps back, eyes bright with tears. Geralt waits until the door is closed and locked before he heads downstairs to the tavern.

He immediately figures out what table where Jaskier and Yennefer were sitting. Yennefer’s lilac and gooseberry smell— slightly scorched ever since Sodden Hill— still lingers in the air. There are three mugs of ale, two empty and one halfway filled, on the table. Geralt picks up one of the empty ones and sniffs. There’s a bitter scent mingled with the ale. Someone drugged this drink.

“Which way did the bard go?” he demands of the barkeep, who points to the back door wordlessly. Geralt shoves his way outside and looks around.

Jaskier and Yennefer are nowhere to be found, but there’s a puddle of sick on the ground. Leaning against the wall next to it is Jaskier’s lute.

***

Yennefer is thrown over the back of a horse, face down over the saddle. She’s never particularly cared for horses, though she doesn’t mind riding Pegasus, who is a docile enough creature. However, this ride reminds her of exactly why she dislikes horseback riding so much. She’s jostled and bounced around as the horse gallops away, left helpless by the ropes around her wrists and ankles and the bag over her head. It’s hard to hear over her own pounding heart and the thud of the horses hooves on the ground, but she thinks she hears Jaskier shouting.

She doesn’t know how long they ride until the horse comes to a halt. Rough hands lift her off the horse’s back and she’s tossed unceremoniously to the ground. She’s surrounded by men’s voices, too many for her to make out exactly what they’re saying, and she’s struck by that same awareness of her own vulnerability that she felt in the tavern. There’s nothing she can do to defend herself right now.

To her left, there’s a cry and a thud, then Jaskier's furious voice. “You sons of whores, I swear to all the gods, if you’ve ruined this fucking doublet—”

There’s another thud and a grunt of pain from Jaskier. The bag is ripped off of Yennefer’s head and she looks around to see them surrounded by six men. Five of them, she recognizes from the tavern. She realizes the sixth is the man who hired Geralt to hunt a monster. She turns and sees Jaskier, looking dazed as he kneels on the ground next to her.

“That’s Yennefer of Vengerberg, alright.” One of the men leers at Yennefer. “Fits the description.”

Well, fuck. Yennefer’s suspicions that there would be a price on her head after Sodden Hill have been confirmed. She glares up at the man who hired Geralt. If the witcher has come to harm…

“Who’s he?” The sheep farmer— who Yennefer guesses isn’t actually a sheep farmer— jerks his chin at Jaskier.

“Just a bard,” another man says.

Yennefer hears Jaskier’s death warrant in the words. _Just a bard._ Bards aren’t worth taking hostage. Jaskier must know too, because his breaths start coming faster.

“The fuck did you take him for?” the fake sheep farmer demands.

“Dunno, he was with her. Thought he could be collateral.”

“Get rid of him. Don’t need any complications.”

Jaskier makes a choked noise as the man closest to them, a burly man with a nose looks like it lost a fight with a brick wall, draws his sword.

“No, wait,” Jaskier says as the man grabs his hair and yanks his head back, exposing his throat. “Please, I’m sure we can work this out. There’s no need—”

“Killing him would be remarkably short sighted of you,” Yennefer hears herself saying.

The man with the sword scowls at her. “The fuck you talking about?”

Jaskier’s chest heaves with his panicked breathing. His terrified eyes are locked on Yennefer.

“That man isn’t just a bard.” Yennefer lets every word drip with disdain. “His name is Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove. He’s in line for the Redanian throne. You kill him, you’re saying goodbye to thousands of crowns in ransom.”

“The fuck is a viscount doing acting like a bard?” the not-a-sheep-farmer demands.

“He’s a fool with grand notions about traveling the Continent, living from out of his father’s shadow, etcetera,” Yennefer says. “Typical poor little rich boy things. Now, if you kill him, you will certainly save yourself a headache, because you heard his singing. But think of the reward if you let him live.”

Jaskier doesn’t say the word as the non-a-sheep-farmer, who Yennefer assumes is the leader here, studies him. “Might be more trouble than he’s worth. If he’s really in line for the throne, Vizimir will be out for blood if he goes missing.”

“What do you think Vizimir will do if he dies?” Yennefer asks.

The man nudges Jaskier with the toe of his boot. “Is that true, boy?”

Jaskier nods as much as he can with the sword at his throat.

“Not so mouthy now, are you?”

“My family will pay a ransom,” Jaskier says, voice shaking. “For both Yennefer and me. She’s a dear family friend. They’ll give you more than what Nilfgaard is offering for her. You seem like a man with a head for business. When undergoing any deal, it’s important to have options. See who’s willing to pay more for Yennefer, Nilfgaard or the Earl de Lettenhove, and go from there.”

The not-a-sheep-farmer grunts and reaches out a hand to roughly cup Yennefer’s chin and force her to look up at him. Yennefer seethes with her own helplessness, tied up on the ground and surrounded by armed men on all sides. She wants to let her chaos explode again, to unleash her rage and engulf them all in a wall of fire. But her magic is still lost inside her, somewhere where she can’t quite reach it. Thinking of the shattered rock and the shriveled flower from the other day, she knows there’s a good chance she would hurt herself or Jaskier if she tried.

“Pretty.” The man strokes a thumb over her cheek. “Too bad you’re a witch.”

Yennefer bares her teeth at him and the man chuckles, like she’s a puppy that’s performing an adorable trick.

The not-a-sheep-farmer pats Yennefer’s cheek and turns to give Jaskier a mocking bow. “You make good points, Your Highness, but it ain’t Nilfgaard that’s looking for your girl. And I’m not about to piss off the people who are.”

“Think about it—”

“Your family will pay ransom for you with or without your tongue, boy.”

Jaskier’s mouth clicks shut.

The man chuckles. “Tie ‘em both to trees. We’ll send a letter to Lettenhove asking for ransom for _his lordship_ in the morning.”

Yennefer lets herself be dragged to her feet, because surrendering is more dignified than trying to struggle and being overpowered. She feels a pang of relief when the bandit holding his sword to Jaskier’s throat withdraws the blade. Jaskier closes his eyes and draws a shaky breath.

“And if you’re lying, boy,” the leader tells Jaskier. “I’ll do worse than just cutting out your tongue.”

***

Geralt slams the barkeep against the wall with enough force to rattle the bottles on the shelf next to him. “What the fuck did you do?”

The barkeep reeks of terror and his face is ashen. “Nothing! I didn’t do nothing!”

“I smelled the ale. You put something in it. What was it?”

“Just something to make the lady a little friendlier. But the bard drank it instead. I didn’t—” Only when the man’s words cut off in a splutter does Geralt realize that he’s squeezing his neck.

Geralt releases the pressure just enough to allow the piece of shit to breathe, as much as it pains him. “Who gave you the drug?”

“Just some travelers passing through. Never seen them before.”

“Bullshit!” one of the drunks at the bar calls.

“Caspar,” the drunk’s friend hisses.

“What?” Caspar waves away his companion’s concerns. “Lars and his lot are in here all the time, causing problems. About time someone dealt with them.”

Geralt turns to Caspar. “Who is Lars?”

“Local lad,” Caspar says. “Or, he used to be. Now, he’s nothing more than a bandit. Leads a group of them these days. He’s the alderman’s nephew, only reason he didn’t hang years ago.”

The cold feeling lodged in Geralt’s heart ever since the barkeep said the drug was intended to make Yennefer “a little friendlier” intensifies. If she’s hurt, he’ll tear apart every single person who had anything to do with it. “Where the fuck do I find this Lars?”

***

The bandits tie Jaskier and Yennefer to trees on the edge of their camp, only feet apart from each other. Jaskier thinks longingly of his coat back at the inn; his silk doublet and breeches do little to keep out the chill. He watches greedily as the six bandits huddle around their campfire and pass around a bottle of vodka. They all have nice winter coats.

Jaskier glances over at Yennefer. He can’t see much of her in the dark, just an outline, but from her hunched over posture, he imagines she’s just as miserable as he is. “Thank you,” he says, keeping his voice low enough that the bandits won’t be able to hear. “You saved my life.”

“Well aware, bardling.”

Jaskier can’t help but be amused. Only Yennefer could keep such an air of cool detachment after being kidnapped and tied to a tree. “I suppose I owe you a life debt now.”

“I would ask for the law of surprise as payment, but I have a feeling that would be a good way to end up with one of your bastards.”

Jaskier doesn’t bother telling her that he’s more careful than that. “How about when we get out of this, I buy you an ale?”

It’s amazing how much disdain one relatively small woman can radiate. “Your generosity is boundless. Especially since we won’t be getting out of this.”

Jaskier refuses to believe that after surviving Nilfgaard, it will be a bunch of toothless assholes in a no-name town that kill them. “Geralt will find us.”

She snorts derisively.

“He will,” Jaskier says, knowing he sounds like a child, but not caring. “A ransom letter will take about a week to reach Lettenhove and it will take another week for them to get the response that my father doesn’t give a damn if I live or die. That’s plenty of time for Geralt to track us.”

“That’s well and good for you. I’m not being ransomed to Lettenhove.”

“I’ll try to talk them around in the morning.”

“And you’ll get your tongue cut out for your trouble,” Yennefer says. “Anyway, Geralt would be a fool to linger in the area. As soon as he realizes we’re gone, he should take Ciri and Dara and get as far from here as possible.”

“You know that Geralt won’t leave us behind.”

Yennefer sighs. “No, he won’t. The sentimental idiot.”

There’s a burst of rowdy laughter from the group of bandits and Jaskier tenses. One of the bandits throws another log in the fire, causing flames to shoot into the air. The light briefly illuminates Yennefer’s face and he sees the same tension in her expression. These men don’t seem like the type to be happy, sleepy drunks. The drunker they get, the more likely this night will turn violent. Best case scenario, they get in a fight and all kill each other, but that would leave Jaskier and Yennefer tied up and helpless in the middle of the woods.

“Thank you,” Yennefer says quietly.

“For what?”

“You tried to bargain for me. Unsuccessfully, but I appreciate the effort, nonetheless.”

“I didn’t want you to get handed over to Nilfgaard. Or whoever else if after you. Who else would have a price on your head?”

“Oh, I can think of at least a dozen people off the top of my head. The King of Lyria, at least three barons in Aedirn, the mayor of Rinde…”

Jaskier chuckles ruefully. “I suddenly feel like an underachiever. My only nemesis is Valdo Marx.”

“I’m nearly a century old, bardling. I’ve had more time to make enemies. You’ll get there. You're plenty irritating enough.”

“Thanks, Yenn.”

“Don’t call me that,” she snaps.

Silence hangs in the air between them. One of the bandits starts to sing loudly and off-key. It’s one of the songs Jaskier sang earlier.

“Do you think Geralt already knows we’re gone, or do you think he’s still sitting on a sheep farm somewhere, waiting for a monster that won’t come?” Jaskier asks quietly.

“Don’t worry, bardling, I’m sure your knight in shining armor will be along to save you shortly.” She doesn’t even try to sound like she believes it.

“His armor isn’t all that shiny.”

“That’s because he’s had that same armor since well before I knew him. Next time you're snuggling up to him, just remember all the things that have died on it.”

It occurs to Jaskier that he has no idea how long Geralt and Yennefer’s affair lasted, or how long ago it ended, or even why it ended. That’s probably something he should ask Geralt about next time he sees his lover.

If he sees Geralt again.

The thought of not seeing Geralt again is enough to wipe away any desire Jaskier has for conversation. Jaskier lets his head fall back against the tree trunk, closes his eyes, and tries to comfort himself with the memory of warm golden eyes and gentle fingers in his hair.

***

Geralt doesn’t want to wait to go on the hunt for Jaskier and Yennefer. Knowing the type of man who has them, he wants to charge out into the night with his swords at the ready. But he can’t leave Ciri and Dara alone at the inn, not with an innkeeper who employs men like the barkeep and allows bandits into his establishment. He also can’t trek through the woods in the middle of the night with a couple of children in tow, especially when he has no idea how many bandits they’re pursuing. The safest option is to wait until morning, as much as it pains him.

Neither Ciri nor Dara sleep soundly, both tossing and turning throughout the night. Geralt doesn’t even attempt sleep. He sits on the ground in front of the door, listening to the sounds of the inn around them. He tries to meditate a few times, but every time he closes his eyes, he sees Yennefer and Jaskier hurt or worse. The fact that he’s not out there looking for them right now sends waves of helpless fury through him.

He shouldn’t have taken the contract and left them alone. He should have realized that the sheep farmer was lying. He should have gotten back the inn faster. He should have…

“Geralt?”

Geralt opens his eyes.

Ciri is sitting up in her bed, expression solemn. “Are we going to find them?”

Geralt should lie to her. He should be reassuring. “I don’t know.”

“If they were looking for me…”

“They weren’t,” Geralt says firmly. “Yennefer has made plenty of enemies on her own without your help. This wasn’t your fault.”

“If they’re dead—”

“Still won’t be your fault. Now try to sleep.”

She lies back down, but doesn’t fall back asleep. Geralt can’t blame her.

They leave the inn at dawn. Geralt hopes to avoid the innkeeper altogether, but the man is waiting for them outside the stables.

“You’re not welcome back here, mutant.” He spits at Geralt’s feet. Geralt shifts to the side to block Ciri and Dara from view.

“Wouldn’t come back here if this were the last inn on the Continent.” Geralt takes a step towards the innkeeper and the man pales. “Did you know that your barkeep is willing to take coin to slip drugs into women’s drinks?”

“He’s worked here for twenty years.”

“And last night probably wasn’t the first time he’s done this.” Geralt takes another step, letting himself loom over the innkeeper. “You better pray to whatever gods you believe in that my travel companions survive.”

“And why’s that?”

“Because if they don’t, I’m going to come back here and burn down this hovel down with you and your barkeep locked inside.”

“You can’t threaten me—”

“I just did. Now, get out of my fucking way.”

The man’s lips thin. “Shouldn’t let you leave with those boys. Don’t know what a mutant like you would do to them.”

“I’d like to see you try and stop him,” Ciri snaps.

“Fion.” Geralt shoots her a look, which is met with an unrepentant stare. Turning back to the innkeeper, Geralt adds, “I was hired to safely escort these boys, their mother, and their uncle to Kaedwen. I intend to do just that.”

The innkeeper doesn’t move.

Geralt doesn’t have time for this. With a growled curse, he casts Axii. “Get out of my way. And while you’re at it, go fire that piece of shit barkeep and let the whole town know that you’ve been letting him victimize women.”

The innkeeper scurries away without another word.

“What was that?” Ciri sounds awed.

“Axii. Mind control sign. You two saddle Pegasus quickly. It won’t last long.”

“Can you teach me to do that?”

“No.” Ciri may be a level-headed girl, but twelve years old is too young to have that kind of power over other people. There’s a reason Axii was always the last sign the instructors at Kaer Morhen taught the trainees.

To her credit, she doesn’t push the subject. “Where are we going to go now?”

“East, towards where the men who took Yennefer and Jaskier normally attack travelers.” It will take them farther from Ellander, but Geralt has no choice in the matter.

“And what will we do when we find them?”

Geralt is glad his back is turned to her so she won’t see the vicious twist of his mouth. “You let me worry about that.”

***

Yennefer doesn’t expect to fall asleep, but she’s woken by the sound of Jaskier crying out. She’s awake instantly, ready to curse whoever is attacking them into oblivion. It’s only then that she remembers that she’s tied to a tree with her hands bound behind her back. She looks over to see Jaskier drawing his knees against his chest to defend himself from another kick while the not-a-sheep-farmer hovers over him.

“Rise and shine, your lordship,” the bandit says with a sneer.

Jaskier squirms against the ropes binding him. “I suppose breakfast is too much to ask for?”

“I can feed you your own tongue after I cut it out.”

“I’ll pass, thank you.”

The bandit snorts. “We need to get moving, so we’re going to untie you now. You have two options. You walk nice and quietly without trying to run, or I break your kneecaps and throw you over the back of a horse.”

“We won’t run,” Yennefer says before Jaskier says something to get his tongue cut out.

“Good girl,” the bandit says and Yennefer’s skin crawls.

Yennefer stays still as another bandit cuts through the ropes binding her to the tree and hauls her to her feet. His hands linger just a little too long and she clenches her teeth so hard she feels her jaw pop. When she looks over at Jaskier to make sure the bard hasn’t said something stupid, she finds him looking around with a hopeful expression, like he still thinks that Geralt is going to pop out of the trees, sword swinging, and heroically rescue them. A small, mean part of Yennefer— the part that is exhausted and filthy and sore from a night spent tied to a tree— wants to snap at him that the heroic rescue isn’t coming.

If they’re going to get out of this, Yennefer and Jaskier will need to do it themselves.

***

Jaskier regrets all the complaining he’s done about walking for the past few weeks. There’s a world of difference between walking alongside Geralt and Roach, chattering and playing his lute while his lover hums and pretends not to listen to him, and this. With his hands bound behind his back, his balance is off, made worse by the fact that they’re kidnappers are avoiding the beaten path. Instead, they’re trudging through the woods, going in a zigzag direction to throw off any pursuers. He falls multiple times, leaving his breeches torn and his knees bruised and scraped.

Jaskier asks for more details about where they’re going twice. The second time, he has the hilt of a sword driven into his lower back as punishment for his impertinence. After that, he doesn’t speak unless spoken to.

The sun is high in the sky when he hears the sound of hoofbeats approaching and the bandits’ leader calls for the group to halt. Jaskier peers around the horse directly in front of him and sees a group of eight Temerian soldiers cantering towards them. His heart lifts. Temerian soldiers aren’t going to let a pair of innocent travelers be kidnapped by bandits. Surely, they’ll help Yennefer and Jaskier escape. He opens his mouth to call out to them.

“Your messenger wasn't lying, Lars,” a soldier with an enormous, drooping mustache says, eyeing Yennefer appraisingly. “You really caught her.”

“Don’t think there’s another purple-eyed sorceress wandering around,” the leader of the bandits, Lars, says.

“Who’s the kid?” another soldier demands.

“Some Redanian viscount. Going to see if we can ransom him. If we don’t kill him for running his mouth first.”

Jaskier starts to protest that he hasn’t run his mouth in _hours_ then thinks better of it.

The mustached soldier urges his horse forward to peer down at Yennefer, who meets his eyes unflinchingly. “You’re Yennefer of Vengerberg?”

“Like he said.” She jerks her chin at Lars. “How many purple-eyed sorceresses are there out there?”

“Answer my question, bitch.”

Jaskier’s hands ball into fists behind his back.

Yennefer looks like she’s swallowed something sour. “Yes, I’m Yennefer of Vengerberg.”

“Told you,” Lars mutters. “We’ll take our coin now.”

The soldier's lips into a nasty smile and Jaskier knows what’s going to happen an instant before it does. The soldier pivots his horse, unsheathing his sword in one swift motion, and lops Lars’ head off.

The men around them explode into motion. Shouts and screams come from all sides as the soldiers descend on the bandits. It’s a massacre. The soldiers are better-trained than Lars and his men, who clearly weren’t expecting the attack. As the fighting rages around him, Jaskier sprints towards the corpse of one of the bandits, which lies on the ground with his sword resting on his chest. Jaskier drops down next to the corpse and begins frantically sawing at the ropes around his wrists with the blade.

He hears Yennefer yell and looks around to see her being hauled to her feet by two soldiers, struggling furiously against them. With her hands bound behind her back, there’s little she can do.

“Yennefer!” Jaskier shouts. His wrists are bleeding from being nicked by the blade, but the rope is only hanging on by a strand, so he doesn’t stop sawing at them.

The mustached soldier runs the last of the bandits through, then turns to Jaskier with a nasty gleam in his eyes. “Sorry, boy, but we have no need for a viscount.”

Jaskier’s heart pounds a frantic rhythm in his throat as the soldier approaches. “Wait, my family will pay a ransom. Anything you want.”

“Nothing compared to what we’ll get for the witch,” the soldier says. “And we don’t need the distraction.”

The ropes around Jaskier’s wrists fall away and he scrambles to grab the fallen bandit’s sword, but the soldier’s blade is already poised to strike. He thinks back to sparring with Geralt only a couple of days ago and how far away any real violence seemed, how sure he was that Geralt would be around to protect him if they found themselves in danger. He raises the bandit’s sword, knowing even as he does it that it won’t do shit to protect him.

The mustached soldier’s head explodes.

For a moment, Jaskier stares at the corpse, stunned, before he looks up at Yennefer. The two soldiers who were holding her are backing away from her, suddenly terrified. “Come on!” she shouts and reality comes rushing back to Jaskier. He scrambles to his feet, grabs her by the arm, and runs.

They crash through the woods, the soldiers’ shouting fading behind them. No one seems willing to follow them, not after Yennefer just exploded a man. It’s not until Jaskier’s legs are numb from exhaustion that they stop long enough for Jaskier to use his stolen sword to saw through the ropes around Yennefer’s wrists.

“Are you alright?” he asks.

“I’m fine.” She doesn’t even sound out of breath as she rubs at her wrists. When she turns to face him, she still looks pissed. “ _Fuck!_ ”

Jaskier blinks, surprised by her unusual outburst of emotion. “What would the Temerian army want with you?”

“Nothing. I have no quarrel with the Temerian crown. I try to avoid this shit country whenever I can. But there are a lot of people in the Brotherhood with connections to Temeria. One of them must have sent the soldiers.”

“Fuck,” Jaskier says. “So not only do we need to worry about Nilfgaardian soldiers, we need to worry about Temerians too.”

She nods, jaw clenched. “I had a feeling there was a traitor in the Brotherhood, but this just confirms it.”

“At least you have your powers back. Care to portal us back to Geralt?”

“I would love to, but I don’t have access to my chaos yet, bardling.”

“Did I hallucinate the part where you just blew a man’s head up?”

“I was trying to take control of his mind, not blow his head up.”

Jaskier stares at her for a moment. Then a hysterical giggle bubbles up in his throat. He slaps his hand over his mouth to try and muffle the sound, but it bursts out, sounding high-pitched and almost frantic. Yennefer draws herself up, offended, and that’s all it takes for Jaskier to dissolve into laughter. The last day of helpless terror seems to drain away and when he looks up, he’s surprised to see Yennefer laughing too. She’s more dignified about it, but there’s no mistaking the way her shoulders shake as she tries not to giggle.

Yennefer of Vengerberg has dimples, Jaskier notices. It’s a startlingly human trait.

When they both calm down, Jaskier manages to say, “Do me a favor and never try to read my mind.”

“I promise you.” She sniffs, visibly trying to retain her dignity. “I have no desire to know what goes on in that thick skull of yours.”

“I can’t blame you.” Jaskier wipes his eyes. “Well, thank you for the rescue. Even if it was accidental.”

“The rescuing part wasn’t.” Yennefer glances over her shoulder. “Come on, we should keep moving. We can’t count on them being too terrified to pursue us for long.”

Jaskier nods and follows her deeper into the woods, swallowing back more laughter.

***


	4. a healer's touch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The soldier snorts. “Came across a group of bandits up to no good, and we did our duty to the crown.”  
>  Geralt isn’t sure what part of their duty to the crown requires burning the evidence of their skirmishes, but that’s not his concern. Yennefer was here; the scent of her magic permeates the entire area.  
> “Was there a woman with them?” he asks. “And a young man in a green doublet?”  
> “Why do you want to know?” The soldier’s heart rate picks up and all five of them turn to face Geralt. Behind him, Geralt hears Dara draw a shaky breath._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for everyone who has taken the time to leave a kudos or comment so far!

It doesn’t take Geralt, Ciri, and Dara long to find the camp where Jaskier and Yennefer were kept the night before. The bandits made little effort to hide evidence of them being there— there are still the remains of their camp fire, ropes discarded by the trees, prints left by humans and horses alike in the dirt. If Geralt concentrates, he can catch the faintest scents of chamomile and scorched lilac and gooseberries. They were here. And the lack of blood or bodies tells Geralt that they were taken elsewhere; they weren’t killed here. It’s little comfort.

Ciri and Dara are subdued as they travel. Dara even agreed to ride Pegasus with Ciri, though he reeks of fear every time the docile gelding so much as twitches. Geralt wishes he had somewhere safe to leave the children; keeping an eye on them to make sure that Dara doesn’t do anything to spook Pegasus takes his attention away from keeping an eye out for signs of Yennefer and Jaskier.

The bandits made some attempt to cover their trail, but they were no match for a witcher’s senses. Geralt is able to see their footsteps and hoofprints in the muddy ground and smell the scent of Yennefer’s magic lingering in the air, so strong in some places that she must have been trying to cast a spell. He briefly loses the trail when they find themselves at a river, but is able to pick it back up.

When Geralt smells the blood and scorched flesh in the air, he tightens his grip on Roach’s reins and takes a deep breath, not wanting the children to see his sudden flare of panic. “Stay behind me,” he tells them in a clipped voice.

“What is it?” Ciri asks. “Are they close?”

Geralt hopes not. “Don’t know yet. Just stay back. And if I tell you to run, you run. Understood?”

Dara nods. Ciri hesitates, then dips her head in assent.

Geralt pulls his hood up, tucks his medallion under his armor, and urges Roach onwards. The stink of a battle grows stronger, laced with lilac and gooseberries. If that burnt flesh smell is Jaskier and Yennefer… well, Geralt can’t even think about that. If Yennefer and Jaskier are dead, he’ll need to continue north to Ellander and then on to Kaer Morhen. He won’t have the luxury of grief; it’s his responsibility to get Ciri and Dara to safety.

Witchers don’t get to be heartbroken, not when there’s a job to do.

He breaks through the trees and finds a group of five Temerian soldiers burning a pile of bodies in a pit. Smoke billows into the air, carrying with it the stench of death. Behind Geralt, Ciri makes a small, broken noise and he wonders if she’s reminded of Cintra and the refugee camp. Geralt glances down at the pit, hoping that he won’t see a pair of staring blue eyes or a head of raven hair. The body on top of the pile is that of a Temerian soldier. His head is missing.

One of the soldiers, a man with a pockmarked face barely covered by a scraggly beard, notices Geralt and draws his sword. “Halt!”

Geralt jerks Roach to the side to block Ciri and Dara from view and raises his hands to show the lack of weapons in them. “We’re just passing through. Want no trouble.”

“State your name and business.”

“Name's Eskel. Like I said, just passing through.” Geralt forces his features to remain flat and unaffected. “Escorting these boys to their family home in Kaedwen.”

“What’s a witcher doing, babysitting two whelps?” The soldier’s lip curls.

“Making decent coin,” Geralt says. “What happened here?”

“What business is it of yours?”

“Simple curiosity.”

The soldier's lip curls. “Came across a group of bandits up to no good, and we did our duty to the crown.”

Geralt isn’t sure what part of their duty to the crown requires burning the evidence of their skirmishes, but that’s not his concern. Yennefer was here; the scent of her magic permeates the entire area.

“Was there a woman with them?” he asks. “And a young man in a green doublet?”

“Why do you want to know?” The soldier’s heart rate picks up and all five of them turn to face Geralt. Behind him, Geralt hears Dara draw a shaky breath.

“It’s okay,” Ciri whispers. “They’re Temerian.” She hasn’t learned yet that it isn’t just Nilfgaardian soldiers who can be vicious and callow. Geralt wishes she could keep that innocence for a bit longer.

“The mother and uncle of these boys went missing yesterday. We’re searching for them.” One of the soldiers has a crossbow. He’ll have to die first; Geralt can’t have arrows flying when Ciri and Dara are this close.

“There were no mothers in this group.” The pockmarked soldier spits into the open grave.

“The woman would have had black hair and violet eyes,” Geralt says. “The man has brown hair and blue eyes.”

The soldier’s head jerks up. “Violet eyes, you said?”

Geralt surreptitiously rests his hand on the hilt of the knife at his belt. “Yes.”

“I only know of one violet-eyed woman, and that bitch is no one’s mother.”

“Where are they?” Geralt asks through gritted teeth.

“They got away,” the soldier says. “But when I find that cunt, I’m going to—”

Geralt never learns what the soldier is going to do, because he shouts at Ciri and Dara to run at the same time that he draws his knife and hurls it at the archer. The man goes down with a blade lodged in his eye and Geralt leaps from Roach’s back to meet the other soldiers’ blades. One goes down instantly, head severed from his neck by Geralt’s steel sword. Geralt casts Igni the second soldier, who reels backwards, screaming, and falls into the pit of burning bodies. The third soldier gets a lucky hit in, his blade slashing a shallow line across Geralt’s hip, before Geralt runs him through. 

As the man’s body falls, Geralt turns to see the pockmarked soldier fleeing. He casts Aard, knocking the man to the ground. He’s on the soldier in an instant, flipping him over and pressing his bloodied blade to his opponent’s throat.

“Who sent you?” Geralt growls.

“No one!”

“Bullshit. Did you pay Lars and his men to kidnap Yennefer, or were you hired by the same people?”

The soldier doesn’t say anything.

Geralt presses his sword hard enough to draw blood. “Whoever they are, are they worth dying for?”

“Fuck you.”

Geralt leans in close, gives the soldier plenty of time to take in his slit-pupiled eyes and his slightly too-sharp incisors. He feels a surge of satisfaction as the soldier’s fear scent sharpens. “You’re going to tell me who hired you, one way or another. I suggest you get it over with. I don’t have time for patience right now.”

The man opens his mouth, closes it, then opens it again. “Look, all I know is—”

Geralt feels his medallion vibrating under his armor. It’s the only warning he gets before the soldier’s words cut off in a wheezing noise and blood comes rushing out of his nose and mouth. He’s dead in seconds, bloodshot eyes staring up at Geralt in silent shock.

“Fuck.” Geralt releases the corpse and climbs to his feet. A quick search of the body turns up no clues on who was responsible for the contract on Yennefer. A powerful mage, if they were able to weave the kind of curse that just killed the soldier. Fringilla Vigo is more than powerful enough to be responsible, but so are most of the mages in the Brotherhood.

He’s about to go examine the other bodies when he hears footsteps crashing through the trees towards him and turns to find Dara running towards him, eyes huge with panic.

“It’s Ciri!” Dara cries.

Geralt is running before the boy even gets the words out. He crashes through the trees, suddenly hyper-aware of a frantic heartbeat and soft, pained whimpers. When he finds Ciri, she’s lying flat on her back on the ground, with Pegasus hovering over her. Geralt didn’t know it was possible for a horse to look guilty, but maybe he’s just spent too long with Roach.

“What happened?” Geralt drops to his knees next to his child surprise. He doesn’t smell blood or see any obvious injuries.

“Fell,” Ciri whispers. There are tears streaming down her cheeks.

Heart in his throat, Geralt pinches her leg. “Can you feel this?”

“Yes.”

Geralt breathes out a sigh of relief.

“It’s my fault.” Geralt looks around to see Dara standing behind him, winded. “I started to fall and Ciri hauled me back in the saddle, but she…” He gestures to the ground.

As soon as they get Dara to Kaer Morhen, they’re going to put him in the saddle of the most docile pony they’ve got and get him to spend a day riding around in circles. “Not your fault,” he tells Dara, because the boy reeks of fear and is looking at Geralt like he expects to be hit. “Glad you’re not hurt.”

Turning back to Ciri, he gently checks her scalp for any wounds. Her pupils are mismatched; the left one is enormous. Most likely a concussion, he thinks grimly. “Are you dizzy?” he asks her. “Nauseous?”

“There are two of you.” Her voice is weak and shaky.

Fuck, definitely a concussion. Geralt knows better than to fuck around with concussions. They’re silent killers, Vesemir always told them. He’ll never forget the boy in his cohort that got hit with a pendulum running the Killer, seemed fine, and then didn’t wake up the next morning.

“We need to get you to a healer,” he tells her. “I’m going to have to pick you up.”

She starts to shake her head, then makes a pained noise. “We need to find Jaskier and Yennefer.”

“Head injuries aren’t something to take lightly, Ciri. Jaskier and Yennefer wouldn’t want you putting yourself at risk.” Geralt glances around, half-hoping the bard and the sorceress will come running out of the trees, probably bickering about whose fault it was that they got kidnapped. But no, Jaskier and Yennefer would have gotten as far away from the fighting as they could as soon as it started. They could be anywhere by now.

“We’ll find them,” Geralt tells Ciri firmly, hoping it’s not a lie. “After we get you to a healer.”

***

After some dithering (mostly on the bard’s part) Jaskier and Yennefer agree to head northeast towards Ellander, rather than back in the direction of the town they came from.

“Geralt will be long gone by the time we get back,” Yennefer tells Jaskier. “Anyway, we don’t know if Lars had other friends in town. Better safe than sorry.”

“But Geralt—”

“Will find us in Ellander. And the Temple of Melitele will keep us safe until he does. Mother Nenneke might not like me, but she adores Geralt, and King Foltest himself wouldn’t dare cross her.”

“To Ellander it is, then,” Jaskier says. “Why doesn’t Nenneke like you?”

“Because she’s a stubborn, impossible old woman who thinks her way is the only correct way and that everyone else can go to hell.”

“Huh. Geralt has a type.”

Yennefer scowls at the back of his head. “He sure does.”

“What do you think it will take us to reach Ellander? Four days?”

“If not five.” Four to five days of no food, no supplies, and nothing but the clothes on their back and the sword Jaskier stole from the fallen soldier. They don’t even have any coin; the little they had on them was taken by the bandits. Anxiety twists Yennefer’s insides. Those wouldn’t be good odds, even if she was traveling with a hardened survivalist like Geralt. With nothing but a bard for company…

“I can hear you thinking, Yennefer,” Jaskier says. “Worry not, I have this well in hand.”

Yennefer snorts. “Do you now?”

“Of course. Geralt has taught me everything he knows.”

“In the month you’ve known him.”

“It hasn’t been quite a month, but yes. I’ll be able to catch us dinner and start a fire, no problem.”

“I’m brimming with confidence.” Yennefer notices that Jaskier is shaking; his clothes aren’t nearly warm enough for this weather. Hypothermia is as sure of a killer as starvation; he’ll need to be warmed up.

“I suppose it’s too much of a risk to stop in a town?” From the false cheer in Jaskier’s voice, he knows how much trouble they’re in as surely as Yennefer does.

“With Nilfgaardians and Temerians after us? Yes.” Plus the fact that Yennefer has no desire to walk into a strange town unarmed and without any coin. Vulnerability attracts the wrong type of attention.

“Any idea why there are Temerian soldiers after you?”

“Someone must have hired them.”

“Any idea who? I knew Nilfgaard was going to be after you, but the Temerians were a surprise.”

“It could have been anyone.” Yennefer’s first thought is Triss Merigold— a natural thought, since Triss works for the Temerian court. But there are few people in the world that Yennefer trusts wholeheartedly and Triss is one of them. Of all the mages in the Brotherhood, Triss is the last person Yennefer can see selling her out.

“That’s not helpful.”

“I’m sorry, but I never came up with a list of which of my colleagues are most likely to betray me,” Yennefer says through gritted teeth. “The fact of the matter is that I’ve had very little to do with the Brotherhood for the last two decades. After I left Aedirn, I went off on my own and I haven’t kept up with most of them. I don’t know who’s allied with who or who wants to be allied with who anymore. Most of the Brotherhood mages are virtual strangers to me these days.”

Jaskier turns to frown at her. “That sounds lonely.”

Gods, save her from bleeding heart bards. “I’m not Geralt, bardling. I’m not some outcast secretly hoping for acceptance. I’ve spent the last twenty years working for myself and accumulating power out from under the Brotherhood’s thumb. You can be alone without being lonely.”

“Yeah? And where has that gotten you, Yennefer?”

“For your sake, I hope you’re on the other side of the Continent when I get my chaos back.”

“Still not afraid of you.”

Yennefer makes a disgusted noise. “Just keep walking, bard. We shouldn’t stop moving until nightfall.”

They fall into silence.

***

It takes Geralt three towns before he finds one with a healer, a flinty-eyed older woman who eyes Geralt with open distaste as he lays Ciri down on the bed.

“What happened to the lad?” The tone of her voice makes it clear that she’s really asking, _“What did you do to the lad?”_

“Fell off a horse and hit his head,” Geralt says, ignoring the accusation in the woman’s eyes. He can deal with whatever she thinks of him, so long as she helps Ciri. “He’s concussed.”

“I can see that, witcher.” The woman peers into Ciri’s face. “What’s your name?”

“Fion.” Ciri’s voice is weak, but at least she’s coherent. Geralt forced her to talk the whole way to the healer’s, terrified she would slip into unconsciousness and never wake.

“And what are you doing traveling with a witcher, Fion?”

Geralt keeps his expression blank.

“He's escorting my brother and me to Kaedwen.”

“This your brother?” The healer eyes Dara. “Not much family resemblance.”

“Different fathers,” Ciri says, a challenge in her voice. “What’s your name?”

“Myra.” The healer waves a dismissive hand at Geralt. “You’re not needed here, and I won’t have you hovering over me while I work.”

Geralt’s jaw clenches. “The boys are under my protection. I don’t leave their side.”

“You will if you want my help. Fion needs several days’ bed rest and a healer’s touch, not a mutant hovering over him.”

Fuck, they don’t have several days, not if Geralt is going to find Yennefer and Jaskier, but none of Geralt’s other options are good either. He won’t risk Ciri’s health, nor will he leave her in this unfamiliar town while he goes off and searches for the others. Jaskier and Yennefer will have to take care of themselves.

But the thought of leaving Jaskier, the man he loves, and Yennefer, the woman he once loved— even if the feelings were djinn-created, they felt real, still feel real, if he’s being honest— alone somewhere in the Temerian wilderness makes his stomach clench.

“Are you just going to stand there and stare at me, witcher?” the healer demands. “Or are you going to get going so I can take care of your charge?”

A small hand grips his sleeve and Geralt looks down into Ciri’s enormous green eyes, still hazy with pain. She doesn’t say anything, but he can see the plea for him not to leave in her eyes. He can also sense the healer’s growing anger; if he doesn’t leave, she’ll refuse to heal Ciri out of sheer spite.

“I’ll be back every hour to check in,” he says, speaking more to Ciri than to Myra. “I’ll be at the inn. Dara, if there’s any problem, you come and get me right away.”

Myra puffs out her chest. “They’ll be safe with me. Safer than they were with you, if the condition this poor lad’s in is any indication.”

Geralt reaches down and squeezes Ciri’s hand. “I’ll be back soon, Fion. I promise, you’ll be okay.”

She doesn’t respond, just swallows and nods.

Walking out of the healer’s home is the hardest thing Geralt has ever done.

***

There was a time when Jaskier wanted to be a traveling bard. He imagined wandering the wilderness with no company but his lute, traveling from village to village to bring the populace joy and music. The name _Jaskier_ would be known everywhere from the highest courts to the tiniest hamlets in the farthest-flung corners of the Continent. Somehow, none of these fantasies included the reality of sitting in the middle of the woods on a cold winter’s night in a too-thin doublet, struggling and failing to make a fire.

“I could really use Igni right now,” he says through gritted teeth as he strikes the stick against the rock again, failing to produce so much as a spark. “Just be able to flick my hand and have a shower of flames appear. Damn convenient.”

Yennefer sniffs. She looks a mess, her hair bedraggled and her dress torn and stained with blood. There’s a spot of either blood or mud on her cheek— Jaskier hasn’t dared getting close enough to check. It makes her look as human as the dimples do, and Jaskier doesn’t know what to do with that. “I wouldn’t want to be in the same kingdom as you if you could cast Igni.”

“Says the woman who accidentally blew a man’s head up earlier.”

Yennefer’s lips twitch. “If I were you, I would take that as a warning.”

“I feel like we’ve covered this. You’re not as scary as you think you are, Yennefer.”

Jaskier’s hands are starting to go numb from cold and his stomach is hollow from hunger. To no one’s surprise, he was unsuccessful at catching dinner without the proper tools for a snare and chasing after rabbits with his sword was an effort and futility. He and Yennefer have a cold, hungry night to look forward to, followed by four cold, hungry days of walking to Ellander.

 _If you make it that long,_ the nasty little voice Jaskier is having a difficult time ignoring reminds him. Because Jaskier knows how easy it is to freeze to death in the wilderness, particularly when he can’t even start a fire. The terror hasn’t set in— he’s too cold, tired, and hungry to work himself up into a proper panic— but he can feel it lurking at the edges of his mind. They don’t know what kinds of dangerous things inhabit these woods, be they man or beast. They don’t know if Geralt will find them, or if he’s even looking for them. They don’t know if the soldiers who attacked them are looking for them.

“Here.” Yennefer snatches the stick and rock out of his hand. “All you’re going to do is give yourself a sore wrist doing that.”

“And you can do better, O’ Mighty Sorceress?”

“I wasn’t always a sorceress, bardling. And I didn’t always have magic to light fires for me.”

Jaskier has a feeling that’s an admission she wouldn’t normally make. He tries to picture Yennefer as a normal woman— the kind who would have to start her own fires— and fails. Surely, she was some kind of noble daughter before Aretuza, the kind of person who lived in a nice warm house and could command other people to conduct such menial tasks for her. Certainly not the kind of person who had to start fires to survive the elements.

“Stop giving me that look, bardling.”

Jaskier blinks at her innocently. “What look?”

“The one like I’m some kind of enigma you need to figure out. I already told you, I’m not Geralt.”

“That is abundantly clear, thank you.”

They’re both quiet for a moment.

“I used to have to sleep outside a lot,” Yennefer says after a moment, in a tone like it’s some kind of shameful secret. “I had to learn how to keep myself warm.”

Jaskier frowns at her. That’s far from the pampered upbringing he was imagining. “Is there anything you can’t do, Yennefer? I’m not being sarcastic. That’s a genuine question.”

“Not that I can think of off the top of my head.”

As Jaskier watches, a flame sparks. A moment later, there’s a small but merrily crackling fire on the pile of kindling he gathered. Jaskier scoots closer to it, holding out his frozen hands to warm them.

“Thank you.”

“Can’t have you freezing to death,” Yennefer says. “Geralt would whine so.”

“He’d get over it.” Jaskier stares into the flames. “You heard Lars and his men. I’m just a bard.”

“Oh, please.” Yennefer makes a disdainful noise that would be called a snort on a less dignified woman. “Maudlin isn’t a good look on you, bardling. Neither is your usual disgusting cheer, but at least that’s natural.”

“I’m not being maudlin,” Jaskier says. “I can’t even light a fire. Geralt’s a trained fighter. Ciri is a scary powerful sorceress in the making. You’re you, even when you can’t access your chaos. Even Dara is helpful with things like hunting and building fires. All I have is my lute and my good looks.”

“Geralt doesn’t seem to mind that you’re just a bard.”

“Now.” Jaskier has been trying to fight down his doubts, but he’s so tired and hungry that his defenses are lowered. “Everything has been such a whirlwind so far.”

“Worried that the bloom will fall off the rose?”

Jaskier grimaces. “Sometimes.”

“He loves you.”

“He loved you too once.”

Yennefer looks at him from the other side of the fire. Now that he can see her better, he decides it probably is blood on her cheek. He decides not to mention it. “He did, but it wasn’t real.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It doesn't matter.” She shakes her head. “Geralt likes to pretend that he’s an unemotional, level-headed witcher, but when he feels, he feels deeply. If he’s decided that he loves you, that’s not something he’s going to take lightly. And neither should you.”

“I don’t.” Jaskier closes his eyes and tries to pretend that Geralt is here with his arms wrapped around him, keeping him safe and warm. “He’s the kindest, most noble person I’ve ever met. I just… I don’t want to be a weak link. I’m never going to be good with a sword, no matter how good of a teacher Geralt is. I’m never going to be good at magic. I’m always just going to be me.”

Yennefer is quiet. “I feel like this is the part where you want me to tell me that being yourself is good enough.”

Jaskier can’t fight the smile that curls his lips. “I would never ask that of you.”

“Good,” Yennefer says. “Because right now, our focus should be on surviving until Ellander. Your little crisis can wait.”

“Thank you for the pep talk.”

“You’re traveling with the wrong group if you want pep talks.” Yennefer sighs. “Come over here.”

Jaskier’s eyes snap open. “What?”

“I can’t watch you shiver anymore. It’s making me colder. Come over here.” She holds out her arms out to him.

He blinks at her. “You want to… cuddle?”

“I want to share body heat so neither of us freeze to death, bardling. Unfortunately, that requires physical contact.”

Slowly, still half convinced that it’s a trap, Jaskier crawls over to her side of the fire and tentatively puts an arm around her. Yennefer makes a disgusted noise and curls against his side, wrapping her arms around his waist. It’s odd, to have her tucked against him. Yennefer gives off the impression of being a much taller woman than she actually is. When she’s in his arms, he’s reminded of how much smaller she is than him. How surprisingly human she is. He can feel her heartbeat against his and feel the warmth of her breath against his neck. A surge of affection for her rushes through him.

“If you tell anyone about this,” she mutters under her breath. “I will kill you, reanimate your corpse, and spell it to sing nothing but Valdo Marx’s ballads for the rest of eternity.”

Jaskier gapes down at the top of her head, appalled. “You wouldn’t.”

“Don’t fuck with me, bardling.”

“And here I thought we were becoming friends.”

“If you think that, hypothermia has already gotten to you.”

“Just wait, by the time we reach Ellander, I’m going to be your favorite person in the world.”

“Starvation has been known to make people go mad,” she says. “Try not to freeze to death in your sleep.”

“I’ll do my best, so long as you don’t freeze to death in yours.”

“Something as mundane as the weather won’t be what kills me, bardling.” She curls closer to him. “Do try and get some rest, while you can.”

And to his surprise, he does.

***

Dara watches as Ciri sleeps, her chest rising and falling evenly. She looks completely fine and if he hadn’t seen her hit the ground, he would think she was about to wake up any moment. They’ve been here for hours and Dara should go join Geralt at his campsite outside of town, but he can’t bring himself to leave his friend, especially not when he’s the reason she’s hurt in the first place.

“You could go get some rest.” He doesn’t realize the healer, Myra, is standing behind him until she speaks. He doesn’t flinch. He really doesn’t. “You look like you’re about to fall over, lad.”

Dara rubs at his eyes. “I’m fine.”

“It’s only natural to be worried about your brother. But all we can do for him is let him rest.”

Dara nods. The hearth is blazing and it’s uncomfortably warm in the room. Dara’s ears are starting to itch; he wishes he could take his hat off.

“It’s dangerous for two children on the road these days. Your brother is lucky all he got was a bump on the head, especially traveling with that mutant.” Myra’s lip curls in disdain, at odds with her sugary sweet demeanor. True to his word, Geralt has come back to check on Ciri every hour, and every hour, Myra has acted like he's a rampaging bear bursting into her home.

Dara bristles. “Geralt’s not the danger.”

“Of course he is.” She pulls up a chair and settles down next to Dara. “You know you can tell me if he was the one to hurt your brother. I can hide you from him. The people of this town will protect us.”

Dara shakes his head. “No, he wouldn’t hurt Fion. He’s not...he’s not a danger to us.”

He’s surprised to realize that he believes it, for the most part. Geralt scares Dara, even though he realized days ago that all the stories he’s heard about witchers eating babies and savaging women are bullshit. The witcher is an imposing figure, stronger and faster than Dara could ever hope to be. Dara is hyper aware of the fact that if Geralt decided to kill him, there isn’t a damn thing Dara would be able to do to stop him. Dara has lived on his own long enough to know to avoid people with that much power over him.

Myra arches an eyebrow. “It’s only natural to believe the best in people when you’re young.”

“I don’t.” Dara’s words come out harsher than he intends, laced with the indignation of this _human_ insinuating that he’s naive, when he’s seen the kind of nightmares that probably only haunt her dreams. “I just… Geralt didn’t hurt Fion. He wouldn’t. Our mother and uncle paid him to escort us to Kaedwen.”

“And where are they?”

Dara looks down at the ground. “We got separated. We were trying to catch up to them when my brother got hurt.”

Myra hums under her breath. “No matter. Your brother is sleeping soundly for now. You must be famished.”

“I’m fine,” Dara says, even though his stomach has been hollow with hunger for hours.

“Nonsense. Why don’t I give you some coin and you go get the three of us something to eat from the tavern?”

Dara hesitates, looking at Ciri. He’s not supposed to leave her alone.

“Nothing will change in the quarter of an hour you’re gone.” Myra shoves some coin into Dara’s hand. “Tavern’s right down the road. Get us three meat pies, will you?”

Refusing doesn’t seem like an option and Dara doesn’t want to do anything to make them seem more suspicious than they already do, so he reluctantly takes the coin and heads down the road to the tavern. Being inside the tavern makes his skin crawl— there are far too many humans, most of them in various states of inebriation. When he goes to the bar and orders three meat pies, the barkeep tells him that they’ll be a few minutes, so Dara sits and waits, trying not to meet anyone’s eye. Luckily, no one there seems to care about him one way or another.

It takes Dara a long time to get his meat pies. When he finally does, he emerges from the tavern with the three of them balanced precariously in his hands. He makes his way back to Myra’s house, sticking to the shadows out of habit, but pauses when the house comes into sight. Myra is standing out front with two men.

Both of the men are inconspicuous in the way of men purposefully trying not to draw notice— hoods pulled up, eyes cast down. But they stand like soldiers, with their backs ramrod straight and their shoulders squared. When one passes Myra a coin purse, his cloak shifts and Dara can see the outline of a sword sheathed at his waist. Neither of the men look sick or injured.

Dara drops the meat pies and runs. He slips around the back of the house, out of sight of Myra and the men, and shimmies through the window. Ciri is asleep right where he left here. Hissing her name, Dara shakes her gently.

“Wha?” Ciri opens her eyes, blinking in disorientation.

“We need to go.” Dara is very aware of the rumble of voices out front, just low enough that he can’t make out what they’re saying.

“Why?”

“I think the healer sold us out. We need to find Geralt. He’s camping outside of town.”

Slowly, carefully, he gets Ciri out of bed and helps her climb out the window. As his feet hit the ground, he hears a man shout inside.

“Can you run?” he asks Ciri, who nods. “Good, then go!”

Together, they flee, the sounds of boots hitting the cobblestone streets echoing behind them.

***


	5. more than four marks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“You and Geralt.”_
> 
> _He feels Yennefer stiffen next to him. “I’m not going to talk to you about this.”_
> 
> _“I just want to know what happened,” Jaskier says._
> 
> _“It has nothing to do with your relationship with him, bardling.”_
> 
> _The barn is dark and Jaskier can only make out the profile of Yennefer’s face when he turns to look at her. “I just feel like… well, like there may still be something between the two of you.”_
> 
> _“I have no interest in stealing away your lover,” she snaps. “I’m not that desperate.”_
> 
> _“I never said you were. It just seems like the two of you would have been perfect together. The badass witcher and the badass sorceress.”_
> 
> _“You would have thought so.” He doesn’t miss the bitterness lacing her voice._

Geralt sits cross-legged in front of his little campfire, trying to get in a few minutes of meditation before he goes back to town to check on Ciri and Dara. Normally, he can meditate no matter the circumstances, but his mind is split in too many directions today— Ciri’s injuries, Yennefer and Jaskier lost somewhere, the people who are after Ciri and Yennefer. Part of him longs for the time a few short months ago, where his only worries were monsters and coin, not politics and assassins.

But a few short months ago, he hadn’t met Ciri and Jaskier. He hadn’t seen Yennefer in nearly a decade.

Footsteps approach and Geralt goes rigid. They’re too heavy to belong to Ciri or Dara and move with the slow, cautious tread of people who are trying very hard not to make any noise. Geralt wouldn’t put it past the villagers to come try and drive him further from the town; the healer was friendly compared to the innkeeper who turned him away with a “fuck off, mutant” and the people at the tavern who spat and threw ale at him. As they draw closer, Geralt can discern four sets of footsteps coming towards him. He sits very still, giving no sign that he’s noticed them, until he hears the sound of a crossbow being loaded.

Geralt throws himself to the side just as an arrow flies over his head, embedding itself in a tree far too close to Roach. With a snarl, Geralt whips the dagger out of his boot and hurls it at the archer. The blade sinks into the man’s throat and he falls. His three fellows come lunging towards Geralt, swords raised.

They’re well-trained, Geralt will give them that. Soldiers, from their fighting style. Definitely not untrained villagers looking to drive out the mutant. However, they were clearly unprepared for witcher strength and speed. Geralt drives his steel sword straight through the first man’s skull, then rips it out and thrusts it into the second man’s chest. The dying man slashes at Geralt with his sword, leaving a shallow cut along Geralt’s shoulder, but Geralt doesn’t slow down. He turns to the third and final man.

When the surviving man raises his sword, Geralt knocks it out of his hand with a swing of his own blade. Geralt closes the distance between them and seizes the man by the neck, lifting him off the ground and slamming him against the wall.

“Who sent you?” he growls.

The man opens his mouth, then makes a terrible choking noise, the same as the Temerian soldier that morning. When Geralt releases him, the man is dead before he hits the ground.

“Fuck.” Geralt wipes off his blade on the dead man’s shirt and then hurries to get the horses. It’s safe to assume that these men were looking for Ciri and if they find her at Myra’s place, she’ll have no one but Dara to defend her. Geralt assumed that Myra’s refusal to let him stay with Ciri was simple prejudice, but if it was something more sinister, then he left his child surprise to the wolves.

He rides Roach to Myra’s house, leading Pegasus beside him, and finds the healer standing outside. Her eyes widen when she sees him. “You’re alive.”

Geralt’s grip tightens on the reins. “Where are they?”

“They ran.”

“You’re a healer,” Geralt growls. “You’d turn one of your patients over to mercenaries?”

“I am a healer.” Myra juts her chin out. “It’s my job to weed out sickness. What are mutants like you and the people who associate with you, if not a sickness?”

Geralt’s lip curls back into a snarl. “If they’re hurt, I’ll be back. Trust me, you don’t want to see me again.”

She says something, undoubtedly more bullshit, but he’s already riding away. Getting to Ciri and Dara is more important than exacting revenge. People scramble out of his way as he rides Roach through the town, looking around desperately for Ciri or Dara. When he sees a small figure running through him, he leaps from Roach’s back and runs for her.

“Ciri!” He drops down to examine his child surprise for any injuries. She looks unarmed, but dazed. “Are you alright?”

She nods, eyes wide. “You need to get Dara!”

Fuck. “Where is he?”

“They were gaining on us, so he told me to run and get you, that he would hold them off. But all he had was his knife!” Her last word breaks off on a sob.

Dara is handy with a blade, but there’s no chance of him holding off armed mercenaries. “Stay with the horse,” Geralt tells her. “Roach will kick the shit out of anyone who comes near you.”

Ciri nods and Geralt runs in the direction Ciri was coming from. He hears a muffled cry and rounds the corner to see Dara on the ground, two men hovering over him. Dara’s hat has fallen off, exposing his pointed ears to the night air. One of the men seizes the boy by the ear and jerks him up to his knees. Dara’s eyes are wide and he’s on the verge of hyperventilating, skinny chest rising and falling rapidly.

“Were you going to stab us, you little shit?” the second man asks, brandishing Dara’s own knife at him.

Dara doesn’t say anything, his eyes flickering back and forth between his captors. None of them have noticed Geralt yet. Geralt doesn’t move. If the men notice him, they might take Dara hostage or they might panic and kill the boy. Geralt can’t risk that.

“Where’s the princess?” The man holding onto Dara’s ear shakes him.

Dara grimaces, but doesn’t say anything. Geralt isn’t sure if he’s being defiant or has been rendered speechless by fear.

“Come on, kid. What, you think if you protect her, she’s going to make you a knight? Or maybe a prince? They don’t like elves in Cintra.”

“Don’t like them around here either.” The other man flicks Dara’s ear.

Dara sets his jaw and sets his gaze at some point in the distance, visibly bracing himself for whatever comes next.

“There are ways to make you talk.” The man with the knife caresses the flat part of the blade over the tip of Dara’s ear.

“Hear that?” The second man seizes Dara by the throat. The boy’s eyes bug out and he grasps at the man’s hands, gasping. “You can either talk before we cut your ears off, or after. Though maybe the princess will like you better after—”

They’re so focused on their prey that they don’t notice Geralt until he’s running the man holding the knife through with his sword. The second man turns on him with a snarl and Geralt doesn’t hesitate before slashing him deep across the belly. Gut wounds are an ugly, messy way to die and Geralt would normally slit his throat as a mercy, but he’s not feeling very merciful after watching the man choke a child. He steps over the moaning man and kneels down in front of Dara.

“Are you hurt?” he asks gently.

Dara shakes his head, staring at the dying man.

“Talk to me, Dara.”

Dara’s eyes flicker to Geralt’s face. “I thought you would take Ciri and go.” It’s not an accusation, but a statement of fact, and somehow that’s worse. Geralt knows that the boy isn’t comfortable around him, but he didn’t realize Dara trusts him that little. Geralt has the sinking feeling that he’s failed somehow— failed to make Dara feel safe and valued.

Jaskier would know what to say, but Jaskier isn’t here.

Geralt chooses his words carefully. “I told you before we left Sodden that you’re welcome to travel with us as long as you want, and I meant it. We won’t leave you behind. Ever.”

Dara swallows audibly. “I know you didn’t plan on having me tag along. I’m not your child surprise. I’m not your responsibility.”

“You’re not my child surprise, but you are my responsibility, and you will be for as long as you decide to stay with us. That means you don’t get left behind.” Geralt holds out a hand to Dara. “Come on, we need to get to Ciri. She’s with the horses.”

Dara lets Geralt pull him to his feet. “I’m sorry. Myra asked me to go get meat pies, and I never thought—”

“You’re not responsible for what she did.” It’s a fight to keep the growl out of his voice. “She was supposed to be helping you, not selling Ciri out to the first mercenary that passed through.”

They find Ciri waiting with the horses, leaning her head against Roach’s neck. Roach is standing very still, as if she realizes that she can’t jostle the princess. When she hears them approaching, Ciri’s eyes snap open.

“You’re okay!” she cries.

“We’re okay.” Geralt lifts her onto Roach’s back and climbs on after her, watching as Dara only hesitates for a moment before jumping up onto Pegasus. “We need to get out of here.”

“What about Myra?”

“Myra’s not the one I’m worried about right now.” Geralt urges Roach into a trot.

“But she—”

“My priority is getting the two of you somewhere safe.”

Ciri leans her head against Geralt’s chest, a gesture that sends a surge of affection through him. “When we find Jaskier, we can have him write a song. Make sure other witchers know not to come to this town.”

A small, sad smile curls Geralt’s lips. Fuck, he misses Jaskier. “I’m sure he would like that.”

They can’t ride as fast as Geralt would like, not with Ciri’s head, but they still trot out of town. Ciri makes a rude gesture at Myra’s hut as they pass it. It’s not until they’re well out of town that Geralt pulls Roach to a halt.

“What are you doing?” Ciri looks up at him with wide eyes. “We need to keep going!”

“You need rest,” Geralt tells her firmly.

“But Jaskier and Yennefer—”

“Can take care of themselves, wherever they are.”

“So what are we going to do now? Just sit here until my head is better?”

“No,” Geralt says. “We’re going to head for Ellander. It will be slow going with your head, but that’s the safest place for us right now. I’ll leave you and Dara there and go to find Jaskier and Yennefer.”

“So we’re just going to _leave_ them out there?”

“I’ll find them, Ciri, once you and Dara are safe.” But the words ring hollow and from the look on his child surprise’s face, she’s no more confident than he is.

***

When Yennefer wakes up, she’s wrapped up in Jaskier’s arms with her head tucked against his chest. She’s cold— she can barely feel her nose or her fingers— but the bard is a comfortable source of warmth. She closes her eyes, feeling his chest rise and fall with his breaths under her cheek and listening to the raspy sounds of his snores. For once, she’s grateful for his snoring. It tells her he didn’t freeze to death during the night.

It’s tempting to lie here for longer, but the hollow pit of hunger in her stomach and the growing discomfort from the cold tells her that they need to keep moving. She disentangles herself from Jaskier’s arms. He makes a mumbled noise of protest. In the pale morning light, he looks very young and very pretty, with his dark lashes fanning against pale cheeks and his pink mouth pursed in what looks like concentration.

Shaking her head at herself, Yennefer prods at him. “Bardling.”

“Mm.” He doesn’t open his eyes.

“Get up, or I’m leaving you here to freeze.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Don’t underestimate me, bard. Get up.”

Jaskier sits up, rubbing his face. “We’re not friends anymore, Yennefer.”

“We were never friends.”

“Well, that’s just uncalled for.”

There isn’t anything to do but walk, so walk they do, heading north in roughly the direction of Ellander. Jaskier spends most of the morning chattering about everything and anything, from the interesting-looking tree they pass to an adorable squirrel to commentary on the weather. Yennefer snarls at him to shut up several times, but he continues to be entirely unafraid of her. It’s not until mid-afternoon that he finally goes quiet, worn by hunger, cold, and exhaustion.

It’s only their second day of this and they still have two or three days more to go, Yennefer realizes. The possibility of them not making it is very real.

“It’s strange when you don’t talk,” she says.

“Oh?” Jaskier turns to her with a pointed expression. “What happened to all the threats to blow my head up if I said another fucking word?”

“ I’m not complaining, bardling. It’s just strange.”

“I’m trying to save the best topics of conversation for later. Don’t want us to get bored of each other’s company.”

Yennefer snorts.

“Why did you decide to become a mage?” he asks.

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“You missed my sparkling conversational skills, so I’m making conversation.”

Yennefer rolls her eyes at the sky. “Becoming a mage wasn’t a choice.”

“No?”

“When I was about fourteen, I portaled myself to Tor Lara by accident and caught the attention of the rectoress of Aretuza.”

“That scary lady from Sodden?”

“Tissaia de Vries, yes. She bought me for my family for four marks and I got to go to Aretuza to learn to become a mage.”

“She _bought_ you?” Jaskier looks horrified.

“Four marks was enough to buy another pig. I’m sure to my stepfather, I was well worth the trade.” Yennefer feels the old shame and resentment boiling up in her and has to remind herself that the man is long dead. He drank himself to death in the same shitty little farm town where he spent his life and no one will remember him.

“Mages need to be trained,” she continues. “I would have been a danger to myself and others if Tissaia hadn’t taken me.”

“So what happened?”

“What do you think? I went to Aretuza. I learned magic. I took a position in Aedirn’s court and worked there for thirty years until I got mixed up in some marital nonsense between the King and Queen of Lyria. Then I left Aedirn and the Brotherhood and went out on my own.”

“Do you like it?” Jaskier asks.

“Do I like what?”

“Being a mage.”

Her first urge is to dismiss the question as a foolish one, but she needs to stop and think about it. Her relationship with magic has always been a complicated one, mixed up in her equally complicated feelings about choice and family and power.

“I like being powerful,” Yennefer finally says quietly. “I like being worth more than four marks.”

She regrets saying it as soon as Jaskier looks at her sadly. “You were always worth more than four marks, Yennefer.”

Something hot and uncomfortable rises in Yennefer’s throat. She swallows it down. “What about you? What made you want to become a bard?”

“Oh, that’s easy. You see, I like singing. I like brightly colored clothes. And I like being the center of attention. It was an easy career path, once I realized I was never going to be the perfect heir my father wanted me to be.”

“There must be more to it than that. You gave up a life of luxury to strum a lute.”

The bard actually thinks for a moment before he speaks, which may be a first. “I don’t want you to think I’m a spoiled noble.”

“Too late for that, bardling.”

“Thank you for the encouragement.” Jaskier sighs. “Growing up, everything was very regimented for me. My father wanted to turn me into the perfect heir and all my lessons reflected that. I think I was six or seven when we got a music tutor. It was the first time I can remember learning something that made me _happy._ And then I went to Oxenfurt and discovered that there was a whole world beyond Lettenhove. After that, I couldn’t go back.”

“So you became a bard.”

“Music makes me happy. If I can spread that joy, then I feel I’m living a life well-lived.”

“How terribly optimistic.”

“You make that sound like a bad thing.”

“Not a bad thing,” she says. “Just surprising for someone in our predicament.”

Jaskier shrugs. “I’m trying to tell myself that it could have been worse.”

“You’re not wrong.” Yennefer remembers Jaskier’s terrified expression as the Temerian soldier advanced on him. How helpless he had looked, even with the bandit’s stolen sword clutched in his hand. Had she not interfered, he wouldn’t have lasted a minute.

They fall into silence after that, both lost in their own thoughts.

That night is more of the same, with the two of them huddled for warmth next to a pitiful campfire. They do manage to catch a squirrel that wanders too close, but the pitiful amount of meat on the carcass does little to soothe the ache of hunger in Yennefer’s belly. She sleeps fretfully, tormented by dreams of faceless men with swords standing over them.

The next morning, it’s Jaskier who wakes her up. He has dark shadows under his eyes, he’s filthy, and he looks exhausted.

“Another day.” He manages a wan smile. “We made it through the night.”

Yennefer waits until his back is turned before she closes her eyes and lets out a long, slow breath. Then she drags herself to her feet and starts to walk.

***

The hardest part about traveling with two children is having to keep up some measure of optimism for them. After three days of Jaskier and Yennefer being missing, Geralt has little hope of seeing them again. If bandits or a monster haven’t gotten them, the elements may have. He does his best not to picture Yennefer bleeding out alone under a bandit’s blade or Jaskier screaming as he’s torn apart by a beast. He likes to think that the djinn bond would tell him if Yennefer has died, but there’s no certainty when it comes to djinn magic.

They’re moving at too slow of a pace, but with Ciri’s head injury, Geralt doesn’t want to ride the horses in anything faster than a brisk walk. If anything happens to jostle Ciri’s head, it could do damage that no healer would be able to fix.

“How long until Ellander?” Ciri asks as they’re packing up camp.

“Should be there tomorrow.” They would be able to get there today, if Geralt was willing to push the horses and travel after dark.

She must sense that, because she frowns up at him. “Not today?”

“No, not today.”

“I don’t want to slow us down,” she says.

“You’re not.” Geralt splits apart a piece of hard tack and hands it to her and Dara. “Eat up, we have a long day ahead.”

Ciri takes her hardtack, but doesn’t take a bite. “How long do we have to get to Kaer Morhen before the pass is snowed in?”

“Hm, hard to say. It’s been a mild winter.”

“You said it would take us two weeks to get from Sodden to Kaer Morhen. But we’re at least three days behind, if not more.”

Geralt nods. They’ll be further behind once he leaves the children behind in Ellander to search for Jaskier and Yennefer.

“We’re not going to make it, are we?” she asks.

He could lie to her, try to protect her from the harsh reality of the situation, but that doesn’t seem fair. “I don’t know,” is all he says.

“What happens if we don’t make it?” Dara’s eyes flick between them nervously.

Geralt has been contemplating that for days now. Winters are long and hungry in the north, especially with additional mouths to feed. They would be welcome at the Temple of Melitele, he knows, but lingering in one place too long will be dangerous. Equally dangerous is braving the elements with Jaskier, Yennefer, Ciri, and Dara in tow.

“We’ll worry about that when it comes to it,” Geralt says. “Right now, let’s focus on getting to Ellander safely.”

Ciri and Dara both nod, but from the steely look in Ciri’s eyes and the trepidation in Dara’s expression, Geralt knows it’s not good enough.

***

After another endless day of walking, Jaskier and Yennefer find a barn to hide in for the night, and some smoked meat to pillage from an ice box. Jaskier feels a pang of guilt with every bite, even though they barely split a single portion between them. The barn smells, but offers some shelter from the biting wind that picked up during the day. Yennefer and Jaskier huddle in a corner under some scratchy horse blankets and hope that the farmers don’t come to check on their animals during the night. There’s a curious donkey that occasionally wanders over to examine them, but other than that, they’re left alone.

“I’ve been wondering something,” Jaskier says after a while. They haven’t had much in the way of conversation that day. Yennefer is uninterested, and Jaskier has been too tired to try to find new things to talk about.

He pauses to give Yennefer time to make the requisite biting comment. Instead, she just makes an inquisitive noise.

Heartened, Jaskier continues. “I feel like I should ask you while I don’t have to worry about you cursing me into a toad.”

“Cursing people into toads is very tenth century. I would just reduce you to a pile of ash.”

“Oh, good. That makes me feel better.” Jaskier runs a hand through his hair, wincing at how matted and filthy it’s grown. Gods, he needs a bath. “You and Geralt.”

He feels Yennefer stiffen next to him. “I’m not going to talk to you about this.”

“I just want to know what happened,” Jaskier says.

“It has nothing to do with your relationship with him, bardling.”

The barn is dark and Jaskier can only make out the profile of Yennefer’s face when he turns to look at her. “I just feel like… well, like there may still be something between the two of you.”

“I have no interest in stealing away your lover,” she snaps. “I’m not that desperate.”

“I never said you were. It just seems like the two of you would have been perfect together. The badass witcher and the badass sorceress.”

“You would have thought so.” He doesn’t miss the bitterness lacing her voice.

Jaskier turns on his side to face her. “How did you two meet?”

Yennefer huffs in exasperation. “Geralt has trouble sleeping sometimes. He’ll go days, sometimes even weeks, without being able to so much as doze. He was having a particularly bad spell when he got it into his head to find a djinn to help him get some sleep.”

Jaskier sucks in a breath. He knows enough about djinns to know that seeking one for help is a dangerous gamble.

“It went about as well as you’d expect,” Yennefer says. “He asked the djinn to put him to sleep and it tried to comply. Permanently. He managed to fight it off, but had to seek outside help to keep it away.”

“You?”

“I was living in Rinde at the time. The mayor wasn’t all that fond of mages, but the townspeople liked me well enough. It’s a fairly well-off town and you wouldn’t believe what wealthy people are willing to pay to have their inhibitions lowered.”

Jaskier cocks a questioning eyebrow, even though he knows she can’t see it in the dark.

“Orgies, bardling. I hosted enchanted orgies and the people in that town paid out the nose to be able to attend.”

Jaskier has been to orgies before, but never an enchanted one. He would really like to know more about what that entails, but Yennefer presses on before he can ask any questions.

“Geralt walked into one.” He can hear the amusement in her voice. “Walked right through all the writhing bodies without stopping. You should have seen him, standing there holding a jug of apple juice, trying his hardest not to look at all the tits and asses around him.”

Jaskier giggles at that mental image.

“I was intrigued, so I helped him. And then when I tried to harness the djinn’s magic for my own—”

“Wait, why the hell would you do that?”

“Djinns are one of the most powerful creatures in existence. Who wouldn’t try to harness that, if given the chance?”

“People who don’t want to _die_.”

“I didn’t care much about that, back then,” she says, an edge of sadness to her voice. “The djinn fought back. Violently. It attacked us and tried to bring the house down around our ears. And so Geralt made his last wish.”

Something about the strange emptiness in her voice sends a shiver down Jaskier’s spine. “What did he wish for?”

“Not to lose me.” She spits out each word like a curse.

“Oh.” Jaskier frowns. “That doesn’t sound all that terrible.”

“Doesn’t it? Because his wish certainly saved both of our lives, but after we fucked in the rubble of the destroyed house—”

“Yeah, really didn’t need to know that.”

“I expected us to go our separate ways. He would be the pleasant memory of an excellent tumble, and that would be that. But then a few months later, we ran into each other again. A fortuitous coincidence, I thought, since it turned out that the man I was trying to destroy was connected to the monster Geralt was hunting. And then it happened again. And again. And again. That stupid, thoughtless wish kept drawing us back together. I thought I loved him. I thought _he_ loved _me._ But it wasn’t real, bardling. It was just magic.”

Jaskier doesn’t know what to say. There’s nothing to say when faced with the raw anguish in her voice.

“All I’ve ever wanted since leaving home was to have a choice,” Yennefer continues quietly. “And Geralt took that away from me. He didn’t mean to. He didn’t _think._ But the end result was the same. I spent five years thinking I’d finally found someone who saw me for who I really was, who didn’t need me to change or soften myself for him, and it turned out that it was a lie.”

Silence hangs between them for a long moment.

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier finally says.

“Don’t be. I learned a valuable lesson.”

“Not to fuck with djinns?”

She snorts. “No, that when something seems too good to be true, it usually is.”

“Can I ask you a question?”

“I don’t see why you would stop now.”

“This bond that the djinn formed between you pulls you towards each other, right? Is it pulling you in a certain direction now?”

“No,” she says. “I used to feel a little tug whenever Geralt was close, or if I was wandering without a set destination in mind, I would find myself going in whatever direction he was in. It’s how I found him after the doppler attacked him. But I haven’t felt it since Sodden Hill. I don’t think it’s gone, but it’s locked away with the rest of my chaos.”

“What about your feelings for Geralt? Are they locked away too?”

Her silence is enough of an answer. Jaskier aches for her— for this terrifying, brilliant woman who has dimples and a surprisingly sly sense of humor and who saved his life twice. He also aches for Geralt, who he knows probably never meant to trap Yennefer with his thoughtless wish. Knowing Geralt, the only thing on his mind was saving someone who needed his help.

“It’s okay if you still love him, you know.” Jaskier doesn’t know why he’s trying to convince Yennefer that it’s okay to still love the man he loves, but acting in his own best interests has never been a strong point of his.

“I told you, it’s not real.”

“I don’t think that’s true.”

“Go ahead, tell me how djinn magic works, bardling.”

“I know fuck all about djinns and magic,” Jaskier admits. “But from what I’ve heard in ballads, the wishes are always meant to hurt, right? So you wish for eternal life, and next thing you know, you’re a sentient rock. Or you ask to lose weight, and then a basilisk comes along and bites off both of your legs.”

“You know, if you sang those ballads, I might actually enjoy listening to you sing.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes. “Stop trying to change the subject by insulting me. All I’m trying to say is that I can see the djinn’s magic drawing you two together again and again. But the feelings? Didn’t they make you happy?”

“Yes.” She says it in a hushed voice, like it’s a shameful admission.

“I don’t think djinns usually give their victims happy feelings, Yennefer. Whatever you had with Geralt brought you joy, at least for a bit. I don’t think that was magic. I think that was the two of you both needing someone to love and finding each other.”

She sucks in a breath. “It doesn’t matter anymore. It hasn’t mattered in a long time. Just go to sleep, bardling.”

Jaskier doesn’t sleep, but he also lets the subject drop. They both lie there in silence, listening to the wind howl outside and the shuffle of the animals around them.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a head's up that I'll be taking a hiatus from updating this fic next week so I can finish up my Witcher Secret Santa fic. Chapter 6 will be posted on December 31st!


	6. blood and scorched flowers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Jaskier isn’t sure what wakes him up. He jerks back into consciousness curled up under the horse blanket with Yennefer cuddled against him, her breathing deep and even with sleep. Outside, the wind has quieted down. The animals are silent. For the first time in days, he’s somewhat comfortable. He should have no problem falling back to sleep. He snuggles deeper under the blanket, trying to slip back into the mindless bliss of sleep.  
>  It’s only then that he hears it— the low rumble of male voices.  
> Jaskier’s eyes snap open. “Yenn?” he whispers.  
> Yennefer makes a sleepy, disgruntled noise that would be downright adorable in any other situation.  
> “Someone’s here.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy (almost) 2021, everyone!
> 
> Content warning: In this chapter, several animals are endangered. All of the animals survive. In real life, it's highly unlikely that they would make it out of this scenario unscathed but my fic, my rules and all animals in my fic have magical plot armor.

Geralt has never minded the quiet. Normally, he craves it. But as he keeps watch while Ciri and Dara sleep, he realizes for the first time that there’s such a thing as too much silence. It’s a windy night, too windy to light a campfire, and Dara and Ciri are huddled together for warmth next to him, their breathing soft and even. He misses the sound of Jaskier’s thunderous snores. He misses Yennefer murmuring nonsense in her sleep— a habit she would deny fervently to anyone who brought it up. Geralt feels their absence like a wound in his chest.

Witchers get used to loss. This should be easier, but that knowledge does nothing to alleviate his grief.

He hears movement and looks around to see Dara sitting up and draping his blanket over Ciri. When the boy notices Geralt watching, he ducks his head sheepishly.

“Can’t sleep?” Geralt asks softly.

Dara shakes his head.

Geralt pats the ground next to him. “Come sit.”

Dara comes to sit next to Geralt, pulling his jacket tight around him. Geralt takes his own cloak off and hands it to the boy, who balks. “I can’t—”

“Witchers don’t feel the cold,” Geralt says, which is a lie, but he’s had decades longer than Dara's been alive to get used to the discomfort that comes with sleeping outdoors.

Dara frowns at him. “Then why bother wearing a cloak at all?”

“For the fashion.”

The boy’s lips curl into a shy smile, but he takes the cloak and wraps it around himself. “I’m used to sleeping outside, but it never got this cold in Cintra.”

“The one benefit of the south.” Geralt knows that Dara’s family was killed in Filavandrel’s uprising, slaughtered with most of the elves in Cintra, but he knows little else about the boy. Has Dara spent years alone, or did someone take him in? How long has he been used to sleeping outside?

“Will she be alright?” Dara asks.

Geralt glances over at Ciri, whose expression is troubled in sleep. “Her head has stopped hurting, which is a good sign. She’ll be fine.”

Dara swallows and nods. “She reminds me of my sister.”

This is the first piece of personal information Dara has offered Geralt. He has a feeling it’s the first time the boy has spoken about his family in a long time. He says nothing, waiting for Dara to continue.

“Her name was Aza,” Dara says. “I think she’d be ten if she had lived. Maybe eleven? I lose track of how long it’s been sometimes.”

Geralt hums encouragingly.

“My parents always said she should have been born a princess, because she was so bossy. She was the youngest of us, but she bossed us around from the time she learned to talk. She had this way about her, that made you want to listen to her, even though she was just a kid.” Dara’s face twists in grief. “When the soldiers came, they set half the village on fire. She and my mother were caught in one of the houses that burned. They were the lucky ones.”

Geralt doesn’t need him to elaborate; he’s heard of the atrocities that Calanthe’s soldiers rained down on the elves, especially the women and children.

“I’m all that’s left. My brothers, my parents, my sisters, my grandparents… they’re all gone.”

He falls silent and the only sound is that of the wind.

Geralt feels like he should say something, so he tentatively offers, “The Trials they put us through to make witchers kill seven of ten of the boys who undergo them.”

Dara looks horrified. “Why?”

“The mutations change our bodies dramatically. Few can survive it.”

“But there has to be a better way.”

Geralt shrugs. “If there is, I don’t think the mages ever cared enough to find out. Of my cohort, only five survived. And then a few years back…” He pauses, trying to determine how many years ago the sacking of Kaer Morhen was. It was before he met Yennefer, but was it before or after Blaviken? Those years blur together in his memory. “A group of humans decided that they couldn’t coexist with the witchers in Kaer Morhen anymore. They attacked. Everyone who was in the keep died, witchers, mages, and trainees alike. There are only four of us left now.”

Dara’s eyes meet his and there’s an understanding there that no fourteen year old should have. What a shitty thing to find common ground on, Geralt thinks grimly.

“It shouldn’t have been me who lived,” Dara says hollowly. “It should have been Aza or one of my brothers. But it shouldn’t have been me.”

“Shouldn’t have been me either.” Better men and better witchers than Geralt perished at Kaer Morhen. “But here we are. All we can do is keep going.”

Dara looks much older and more world weary than he should be.

Before Geralt can think of something encouraging to say, Ciri lets out a cry. It’s not her chaos-ridden scream, but it’s loud and shrill enough to make Dara jump and have Geralt’s hand fly to his sword. When she sits up, her eyes are wild.

“They’re in a barn,” she says, voice raw with terror. “They’re in a barn and there’s a fire! They’re in trouble!”

Geralt is already on his feet before she finishes speaking.

***

Jaskier isn’t sure what wakes him up. He jerks back into consciousness curled up under the horse blanket with Yennefer cuddled against him, her breathing deep and even with sleep. Outside, the wind has quieted down. The animals are silent. For the first time in days, he’s somewhat comfortable. He should have no problem falling back to sleep. He snuggles deeper under the blanket, trying to slip back into the mindless bliss of sleep.

It’s only then that he hears it— the low rumble of male voices.

Jaskier’s eyes snap open. “Yenn?” he whispers.

Yennefer makes a sleepy, disgruntled noise that would be downright adorable in any other situation.

“Someone’s here.”

Next to him, he feels her tense. “It could be the farmers.” There’s no trace of grogginess in her voice.

“It could be.” But Jaskier can remember all too well the feeling of steel at his throat and watching the Temerian soldier advance on him. He doesn’t think for a second that the men outside are just innocent farmers. His and Yennefer’s luck is never that good.

“What do we do?” he asks in a hushed voice. “Do we run?”

She shakes her head. “We’ll be easy to spot outside.”

“So we just sit here and hope for the best?”

“Do you have a better option, bardling?”

There’s a low laugh from outside, quickly shushed. Jaskier feels a chill crawl down his spine. Without thinking, he reaches out and pulls Yennefer into his arms, more to comfort himself than her. She goes stiff for an instant, then relaxes into the touch.

“Maybe they’re just looking for a warm place to spend the night, like us,” Jaskier whispers into her hair. “Maybe they mean no harm.”

“And maybe I’m the Emperor of Nilfgaard.”

“Not everyone on the Continent can be trying to kill us.”

“It seems like it right now.”

There’s a long moment of silence. Jaskier holds his breath, listening.

And then he smells smoke. One of the goats gives an alarmed bleat.

“Fuck,” Yennefer hisses. “They’re trying to burn us out.”

Jaskier’s heart jumps into his throat and he’s suddenly back in Cintra, smelling the smoke and burnt flesh as he and Geralt fled the city.

“Jaskier.” Yennefer’s voice is low and urgent.

Jaskier thinks that may be the first time she’s ever called him by his name. “We can’t stay here.”

“We could,” she says. “I doubt what they’re planning to do to us is any better than being burned.”

Jaskier shudders. “I’d rather take my chances out there than in here.”

He feels her nod against him. “Stay behind me.”

“Yennefer—”

“ _Stay behind me._ There’s a chance they want me alive. They may take me and leave you alone.”

As the smoke smell gets stronger, the animals are growing louder and more panicked, filling the barn with squeals and bleats. Jaskier holds Yennefer a little tighter. “Now who’s the optimist?”

Yennefer doesn’t answer, instead slipping out of his grasp and standing up. She reaches down to pull him to his feet and he clambers upright, groping in the darkness to try to find the wall and steady himself. “Probably a bad idea for you to try and create a magical light?” he asks, trying to keep his voice breezy.

“It would save the men outside the trouble of killing us.”

“Definitely a bad idea then.”

Together, they stumble their way towards the door, tripping over the animals underfoot. When they get to the door, Yennefer shoves her way in front of Jaskier and tries to slide it open. The door doesn’t budge and she rattles it to no avail.

“Here.” Jaskier reaches around her and tries himself, but the door is jammed. The smoke smell is getting stronger and he can feel the animal panic clawing at his throat.

“I don’t think they’re here to capture you, Yenn,” he whispers.

She pounds at the door. “Mother _fuckers._ ”

Jaskier rams his shoulder into the door, only succeeding in giving himself a sore shoulder. He hears no noise outside the barn— no laughter or talking. Whoever set the fire is either watching silently, or they’ve left. He slams himself against the door again, then again, but it’s no use. Geralt might be able to break through, but Geralt’s not here.

Jaskier’s not going to see Geralt again. The thought almost sends him to his knees in despair.

“Move,” Yennefer barks and Jaskier throws himself to the side, nearly tripping over a goat. He remembers her exploding that soldier’s head. But nothing happens. The smell of lilacs and gooseberries fill the air, but the door doesn’t fly open. They don’t magically find themselves portaled outside. The smell of smoke doesn’t vanish.

“Fuck!” Yennefer slams her fist against the door. Behind them, there’s a crash as part of the ceiling collapses. Flames illuminate the barn and Jaskier can finally see Yennefer’s face.

Her face is twisted with pain and fury and fear. She’s clutching her hand, which is bleeding. A splinter must have gotten her when she was pounding the wall. Jaskier steps forward and holds the hem of his doublet against the cut on her palm, trying to staunch the bleeding.

“Blood’s a bitch to get out of silk,” Yennefer says tiredly.

“So are char marks.” Jaskier shrugs. “Think this doublet may be a loss.”

She looks up at him. “I’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?”

“Because they weren’t here to kill you. They were here for me. You shouldn’t have been caught in the crossfire.”

Jaskier swallows. “That’s not on you. At least Ciri, Dara, and Geralt aren’t here.”

“Small mercies.” Yennefer grimaces as a plank of burning wood falls, alighting the hay. Flames shoot into the air.

Jaskier wants to curl into a ball and hide in the corner, but there’s no hiding from the flames. Instead, he takes a deep breath and holds in arms out. “Do you…”

She moves into his arms, tucking her head against his chest. “Don’t tell anyone about this.”

Jaskier chuckles without humor. “I’ll take it to the grave, Yenn.”

He closes his eyes and buries his face in her hair as the fire rages around them.

***

Geralt isn’t sure how Ciri knows where they’re going, but he doesn’t stop to ask questions. He rides Roach as hard as he dares as Ciri shouts instructions, keeping an arm around her middle to keep her securely in the saddle, Dara and Pegasus right behind them. Geralt’s mind is filled with images of Jaskier and Yennefer trapped and burning and he tries to think around the panic, to focus on the task at hand.

And then they burst through the treeline and Geralt sees it— a picturesque farmhouse. Behind it, the barn is aflame.

Geralt pulls Roach to a halt and leaps from her back. “Stay here!” he shouts. Ciri may protest, but he doesn’t hear over the pounding of his own heart as he sprints towards the burning barn. Inside, he can hear the panicked screams of animals and the crackle of burning wood. No human screams, which Geralt hopes is a good sign. The smell of smoke and Yennefer’s magic is heavy in the air, but there’s no burnt flesh smell. Not yet.

He expects an attack with every step he takes, but he makes it to the door of the barn without anyone trying to stop him. When he tries to slide open the door, it doesn’t budge. There’s nothing visible blocking it, but Geralt’s medallion is vibrating. Magic. He takes a step backwards and calls, “Jaskier? Yennefer?”

“Geralt?” Jaskier’s voice is hoarse and terrified.

“Back away from the door!” He gives them a minute to comply, and then casts Aard. The door goes flying off its hinges with the crack of wood splintering and a small herd of goats, sheep, donkeys, and a horse come spilling out of the barn. Among them are Jaskier and Yennefer.

“Geralt!” Jaskier stumbles into Geralt’s arms and while Geralt knows they should be getting the fuck out of here, he stands there and holds his lover close, listening to the too-fast pounding of Jaskier’s heart. Jaskier reaches back and pulls Yennefer towards them and to Geralt’s surprise, she doesn’t protest. Geralt wraps an arm around each of them and buries his face into Jaskier’s hair. They smell like each other— like blood and scorched flowers— and Geralt wonders if they were holding each other before he got there.

Geralt has so much to say. _“I thought I would never see you again. I thought I had lost you. I thought I had failed you. I love you, I love you, I love you.”_ What he says is, “We need to get back to Ciri and Dara.”

Jaskier makes a small noise against his shoulder. “We should try to help. Stop the fire. The people who live here—”

Geralt can’t hear any human heartbeats coming from the farmhouse. “Whoever did this made sure there wouldn’t be any witnesses.”

“Fuck.” Yennefer takes a step back and turns to look at the barn just as the roof collapses entirely. Geralt yanks them backwards as flames shoot into the air, trying not to think about what would have happened if he had been only a moment later.

Jaskier must be thinking the same thing, because he slips his hand into Geralt’s and squeezes. It feels so damn good to have Jaskier here with him again, safe. To know that Geralt hasn’t lost him.

Something bumps his shoulder and Geralt turns around to see the horse— a lovely black mare— staring at him with soulful eyes. He reaches out to pat her nose and she snorts and shoves her face against his hand. He reaches into his pocket and finds a sugar cube for her, which she delicately takes from his hand.

“Only you,” Yennefer says, fondness in her exhausted voice.

Geralt shrugs. “Horses like me.”

When they start back towards Ciri and Dara, the mare follows them, either lured by the promise of more sugar cubes or sensing that there are no longer any humans at the farm to take care of her. Geralt coos to her in a soft voice to keep her calm. Ciri comes sprinting out of the trees and straight into Yennefer’s arms.

“You’re okay!” she cries. “I thought…”

“Shh.” Yennefer cups the girl’s face in her hands. “We’re fine. Everyone is fine.”

Geralt looks at the farmhouse. He wonders how many people lived there. He wonders if there were children. He wonders how long it will take anyone to find the bodies.

Yennefer seems to be thinking the same thing, because she follows Geralt’s line of sight and her jaw clenches.

To Geralt’s surprise, Jaskier puts a hand on Yennefer’s back. To his even greater surprise, she leans into the touch.

“Come on,” Jaskier says. “Let’s get the fuck out of here before whoever just tried to burn us alive comes back to make sure the job is done.”

***

They ride for hours before stopping for the night. By the time Geralt declares them far enough away from the farm that they can safely make camp, the cut on Yennefer’s hand is killing her and she’s so exhausted, she’s having trouble staying on Pegasus’ back with Ciri. Yennefer goes to build the fire while the others set up camp around her, trying to ignore the pain in her hand. She hears Ciri cooing and looks over to see the girl stroking the black mare’s nose and talking to her in a low voice.

“I think I’m going to call her Kelpie,” Ciri announces.

Geralt looks up from spreading out the bedrolls with a quirk of his lips. “We can try to find tack for her in the next village. Wouldn’t hurt to have a third horse.”

They can’t truly afford a third horse, but Yennefer knew they would be keeping the mare as soon as she delicately ate the sugar cube out of Geralt’s palm and he melted. He’s terribly predictable. And it seems like he may have passed down that trait to his child surprise, if the moon eyes Ciri is giving the mare are any indication.

“Kelpie is a fine name for a horse.” Jaskier comes over to pat the mare on the nose. “Better than Roach.”

“Hm,” Geralt says. “Better than Pegasus too.”

Yennefer ducks her head to hide her smile at Jaskier’s resultant squawk of indignation. She stays by the fire as Jaskier, Ciri, and Dara settle down for the night, only looking up when Geralt comes to sit down next to her by the fire.

“I can take the first watch,” Yennefer says, taking in his haggard appearance. “You look like you haven’t slept in days”

“So do you.”

She narrows her eyes at him. “Are you telling me I look tired, Geralt?”

“Course not. Sorceresses don’t get tired.” But his eyes spark with mischief when he looks at her and Yennefer can feel something warm and unwelcome kindling in her chest. He holds out a hand. “Here, let me see.”

She holds out her own hand for inspection. “It’s just a scratch.”

“Hm.” He takes it between his hands, examining the cut on her palm. “Needs stitches.”

“It’s not that deep.”

“It’s been hours and it’s still bleeding. You should have said something.”

Yennefer huffs. “We were a bit busy fleeing for our lives.”

“Had to be painful holding the reins. Making the fire too.” There’s a furrow forming in Geralt’s brow.

She presses her free hand against her thigh, willing away the urge to reach out and smooth that furrow with her thumb. “It’s a splinter, Geralt. I’m hardly in danger of bleeding to death.”

He grunts. “Stay here.”

Yennefer waits by the fire, watching Jaskier, Dara, and Ciri sleep on the other side of the fire. Jaskier is already starting to snore a bit. She finds herself studying him in the flickering firelight— the pink curve of his mouth, the rasp of stubble on his jaw, the long fingers clutching at the woolen cloak wrapped around him.

She doesn’t notice Geralt returning until he sits down next to her and takes her hand in his. “This might sting a bit,” he says and pours some water from the canteen over her hand. Yennefer hisses at the sudden cold.

“Alright?” Geralt asks.

She nods. “You don’t need to treat me like some delicate flower.”

“I know,” he says. “Doesn’t mean I want to hurt you.”

She doesn’t have anything to say to that, so she watches as he takes a cloth and cleans the dirt and splinters of wood from the wound, his touch painfully gentle. He’s always gentle with her, even when he doesn’t need to be. She finds herself watching his hands and reminding herself that this warmth she feels, this affection, isn’t real. It was a djinn’s twisted way of fulfilling Geralt’s wish. It was a fantasy.

Geralt’s voice breaks her reverie. “Put your hand on my leg.”

Yennefer looks up at him with a raised eyebrow.

His cheeks flush. “Better angle for the stitches.”

“Of course.” Yennefer puts her hand on his thigh palm-up, taking a moment to appreciate Geralt’s legs. She always loved those legs, especially his strong thighs. Nearby, Jaskier snorts in his sleep and she looks away.

She grimaces as he begins to stitch the wound and Geralt asks, “Are you alright?”

“It’s hardly a scratch, Geralt. I think I’ll live.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about,” he says. “I was… worried when I found out your drink had been drugged. About what would happen.”

“I wasn’t harmed beyond a few bumps and bruises when they threw me over the back of the horse.”

Geralt lets out a long, slow breath. “Good.”

“I need my fucking powers back, Geralt.” Yennefer closes her eyes and remembers slamming her fists helplessly against the barn door, knowing there was nothing she could do to save herself and Jaskier. “If it weren’t for Ciri, Jaskier and I would have burned to death tonight.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know what the problem _is_ so I don’t know how to fix it.” She realizes her voice is growing louder and takes a deep breath to calm herself. “I can’t be helpless like that again. I can’t…”

Jaskier snorts again and Geralt and Yennefer both look over at him.

“It’s pure luck that we survived,” Yennefer whispers. “Pure luck that I managed to talk the bandits out of getting rid of Jaskier and that I was able to stop the soldier from killing him. Pure luck that you found us tonight. A lot of people want me dead right now. I need my chaos.”

“We’ll figure something out, Yenn. We always do.” He looks into her eyes, expression open and earnest in the firelight. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For keeping Jaskier alive.”

“I wasn’t going to let him die.” Her eyes travel back over to Jaskier. He’s lying on his back, mouth agape. It shouldn’t be adorable. It’s _not_ adorable, she’s just shaken and sleep-deprived. “We kept each other alive, in the end. He tried to convince the bandits to ransom me, told them that I was a dear family friend and that his father would pay for both of us. It didn’t work, of course, but it was a valiant effort.”

Geralt’s expression softens.

“I’ll admit, when I first saw the two of you together, I didn’t understand it,” Yennefer says. “I couldn’t figure out how you could put up with all the noise and the chatter. But I get it now. I see why you love him. He’s more than he appears.”

“He is.” Geralt looks over at his lover with such open affection on his face that it makes something inside her ache. “I didn’t understand it at first either, but he’s… he fits with me. It’s like I’ve known him for years. Haven’t felt like this in a long time.”

Yennefer knows when Geralt last felt this way about someone. “I’m glad you have him. You deserve something real.”

“So do you, Yenn.”

She closes her eyes. Through her eyelids, she can still see the flickering lights of the flames. On the other side of the fire, Jaskier snores. She should hate him, for having what she wanted for so long.

Yennefer wishes she hated both of them, but she doesn’t. She can’t.

“I don’t think people like me get real, Geralt,” she says, too tired for artifice.

Geralt makes a small, wounded noise, but doesn’t reply. They sit in silence while he sews up her wound, the last fifteen years hanging heavy between them.

***

Jaskier wakes to the gray light of early morning, sandwiched between Ciri and Dara, to feel fingers combing through his hair. He opens his eyes to find him looking into Geralt’s yellow eyes. Geralt is lying on the other side of Ciri, watching Jaskier with a soft expression.

“Hi,” Jaskier whispers, careful not to wake the others.

Geralt’s lips twitch. “Hi.”

Jaskier takes a deep, shaky breath. “I missed you.”

Geralt’s hand slides down to cup his cheek. “And I you.”

“I didn’t think…”

A furrow forms in Geralt’s brow. “I know.”

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier says softly.

“You have nothing to apologize for.”

“I got us captured. I told you I wouldn’t draw any attention to us, and that’s the first thing I did.”

“You were trying to get us an affordable place to stay for the night. You did nothing wrong. I’m sorry that I let myself be fooled by the contract. I should have known something was wrong. I never should have left the four of you alone.”

“You thought there was a family who needed help and you went to do your job. You did nothing wrong.”

“I wasn’t there. I should have been there.”

“How about this? I won’t blame myself and you don’t blame yourself? Deal?”

Geralt hesitates, then grumbles, “Deal.”

“I know not blaming yourself is a novel idea, Geralt, but I have faith in you.” Jaskier reaches up to cover Geralt’s hand with his. “I love you. I never thought I’d get to tell you that again, so I need to tell you, I love you so much.”

“I love you too, Jask.”

From between them comes the sleepy murmur of, “Gross.”

Jaskier laughs so hard he wakes Yennefer and Dara up.

***

Geralt spends the entirety of the two days’ journey to Ellander braced for the worst— assassination attempts, bandits attacking, soldiers blocking the road— but nothing happens. Far from being relieved, he can’t help but feel that they’re being lulled into a false sense of security, like someone is waiting for Geralt to let his guard down before they strike. They stay away from the main roads and travel well into the night to hide under the cover of darkness, but that doesn’t stop Geralt from feeling like he’ll turn around and find someone waiting behind him for the chance to strike.

They arrive at the Temple of Melitele in the middle of the night and are greeted by a young priestess who hardly looks older than Dara. “Mother Nenneke is already abed,” she tells them. “But we can prepare five guest rooms for you.”

“Four.” Geralt settles a hand on Jaskier’s back. He hasn't wanted to let his lover out of his sight since they were reunited. Jaskier can’t go into the woods to relieve himself without Geralt being on edge, braced to hear a cry of fear or pain.

Jaskier shoots him a small smile.

At first, the priestesses try to put Jaskier and Geralt in a different wing from Yennefer, Ciri, and Dara, but Geralt has no intention of being that far away from any of them. They’re safer in the Temple of Melitele than they are on the road, but this still isn’t Kaer Morhen. Eventually, he and Jaskier are settled in the room next to Yennefer’s, with Ciri and Dara’s bedrooms across the hall. The room they’re in is tiny, with a narrow bed hardly big enough for two, but Geralt doesn’t care. The priestess provided them with a small basin of warm water, two cloths, two fresh changes of clothes, and a pointed reminder that they can utilize the bathhouse before breakfast in the morning.

Jaskier and Geralt clean themselves up in silence. Geralt is exhausted, but he’s awake enough to feel a twitch of interest at the sight of his lover’s lean, naked body. It’s been weeks since he last had Jaskier all to himself, besides their brief forays to collect firewood.

As Jaskier collapses into bed, he catches Geralt looking and cocks an eyebrow. “My love, I never thought I would say this, but not tonight. Tomorrow, we can take full advantage of this wonderful, beautiful bed. Tonight, I’m sleeping.”

The bed is average as far as beds go— narrow and with a lumpy mattress, but Geralt doesn’t mind. It’s a bed with Jaskier in it and that makes it the height of luxury. He blows out the candle and sinks down onto the bed next to Jaskier, looping his arms around the bard’s waist. They lie there in silence for a long moment, with Geralt listening to the sound of Jaskier’s heart beating and his steady breathing. He’s glad for the small bed giving him an excuse to hold Jaskier close.

“Can I ask you something?” Jaskier murmurs.

“Of course.”

“Yennefer told me about the djinn.”

Geralt stiffens.

“We don’t need to talk about it, if you don’t want to,” Jaskier says quickly.

“No.” Geralt forces himself to relax. “You deserve to know about it.”

“So the two of you…”

“It’s been over for a long time.” In the darkness, Geralt can clearly see the devastation on Yennefer’s face as they stood on that mountaintop, the way her chin wobbled for just a moment before she gained control of herself. “It was a stupid, thoughtless wish. I never intended for it to go the way it did.”

“I know.” Jaskier’s voice gentles.

“I didn’t want to trap her, Jask. I wanted to save her life. Should have known that the djinn would want to get a parting shot in.”

“She thinks the feelings between you were created by the djinn.”

Geralt swallows back the sour feelings in his throat. He doesn’t want to think about the moment that Yennefer brought that up, the realization that the most meaningful relationship in his life had been created by magic. “She’s probably right about that. She knows more about magic than me.”

“Have you felt the pull of the wish lately?” Jaskier is speaking slowly, like he’s choosing each of his words carefully.

Geralt frowns. “No, not for a while. I kept hoping it would pull me towards you two when you were missing, but it never did.”

“Yennefer thinks that whatever happened to her chaos at Sodden Hill, the djinn wish is locked away with it too.”

“Hm.”

“Do you still love her?”

Geralt won’t lie to Jaskier. “Yes. But that doesn’t mean that I love you any less.”

“I know.” Jaskier cups Geralt’s cheek in his hand. “It’s okay, Geralt.”

Geralt presses into the touch. “She was the first person who ever wanted me for longer than a night or two at the time. The first person who sought me out. It felt real when we were together. It didn’t feel like a wish.”

It still doesn’t, if Geralt is being honest with himself.

“Those feelings don’t just vanish,” Jaskier says quietly.

“They will eventually. I’m sure Yennefer’s been looking for a way to break the wish. Someday, she’ll succeed.” Geralt hears the bitterness lacing his tone.

“Geralt, you’re one of the most lovable people I’ve ever met. Don’t make that face that I know you’re making right now. It’s true. And Yennefer…” Geralt doesn’t think he imagines the way Jaskier’s heart rate picks up. “She’s incredible. I don’t think the two of you needed a djinn wish to make you fall in love. How could you not love each other?”

Geralt grabs Jaskier’s hand and presses his lips against his knuckles. “It doesn’t matter anymore. I have you. I love you. No djinn wish involved.”

“It would be okay if it did matter, though. I need you to realize that.”

Geralt doesn’t know what Jaskier is trying to tell him. Does he think Geralt will leave him for Yennefer? But if that’s the case, how can Jaskier sound so calm? “I love you,” he says again, because he doesn’t know what else there is to say.

“I love you too, Geralt,” Jaskier whispers. “So much. I just want you to be happy.”

“I am.” Geralt presses his face against the base of Jaskier’s throat, so he can feel the steady thrum of the bard’s pulse underneath his cheek. They don’t speak again, but it still takes Geralt a long time before he can drift off to sleep.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope that you are all having a safe and happy New Year's Eve!
> 
> ETA 1/7: Apologies, but chapter 7 is going to be delayed by a day or 2. Life got away from me this week.


	7. Melitele's tits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Most people do like me,” Jaskier says.  
>  “Most people are idiots.”  
> Jaskier snorts. “Oh, please, you can’t pretend that I haven’t won you over. Just a little.”  
> She turns to face him. “I’ll admit that if I had to choose between your company and that of the men who want to kill or kidnap me, I would probably choose yours.”  
> “I knew it was only a matter of time before we became best of friends.”  
> “Is that what you want to be, bardling? Friends?” Yennefer isn’t sure where the words come from. She doesn’t know what the fuck she’s doing. But he looks terribly appealing right now and part of her _wants_ in a way that she doesn’t have the time for right now. ___

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for this being a day late with this chapter! Life got away from me a little bit this week.

Jaskier’s sleep is uneasy, haunted by formless dreams that are full of flames licking at him and shadowy figures and knowing that Yennefer, Geralt, Ciri, and Dara are in danger but not quite knowing _why_. So it’s a relief when he’s woken by the brush of lips on the back of his neck and a large, warm hand settling on his hip. Jaskier stretches and rolls over to face Geralt, who is watching him sleepily from under a matted nest of white hair.

“Good morning.” With a chuckle, Jaskier brushes the hair from Geralt’s face. He was worried that after last night, that things would be awkward between them, that Geralt might be angry or resent Jaskier’s questions. But there’s no anger in his lover’s expression, just affection and wanting.

Jaskier lets his hand trail down Geralt’s torso. “We should probably wait until we’ve had a bath. I think I smell.”

“You do.” Geralt’s lips quirk. “But so do I.”

“Ah, what better thing to wake up to than sweet nothings from handsome men. You’re going to bring a tear to my eye if you’re not careful, my love.”

“Hm.” Geralt kisses him sweetly and that’s enough to clear the last bit of the fuzziness of sleep from Jaskier’s mind. The hand on his hip slides to cup his ass and Jaskier can feel his cock stirring to wakefulness.

There’s a rap at the door. “There’s breakfast downstairs!” Ciri calls. “I’m supposed to remind you to take a bath before you sully the dining hall with your stench!”

Jaskier and Geralt stare at each other until the sound of footsteps retreat down the hallway. “Well,” Jaskier says after a long moment. “I guess that’s our cue to get up.”

“Hm.” Geralt looks down. “We’re both already up.”

Jaskier cackles, delighted, and presses another kiss to the corner of his lover’s mouth before he slides out of bed. He can feel Geralt’s eyes on him as he pulls on the loose-fitting clothes the priestesses provided. Jaskier’s clothes— well the clothes he stole from the farmhouse back in Sodden, since his own clothing is all good and ruined— are away being laundered.

“Let’s go see this bathhouse I’ve heard so much about,” Jaskier says.

The bathhouse is indeed as nice as Jaskier expected, with running water, which is a rare treat this far north. Jaskier and Geralt take a long, hot bath, that Jaskier would dearly love to make a bit steamier, but Geralt grimly tells him that he’s been caught getting frisky in the bathhouse before and won’t risk Mother Nenneke’s wrath again.

“Geralt.” Jaskier’s hands still in Geralt’s hair. “Are you afraid of a priestess?”

“You haven’t met Nenneke,” the witcher grumbles. “Once you do, you’ll understand.”

Once they’ve bathed and gotten dressed, they make their way downstairs to the dining hall, which they find full of the white-clad priestesses of Melitele. The room is hushed; Jaskier knows that many dedicates of Melitele take vows of silence, though not all of them. Numerous pairs of eyes turn to watch Jaskier and Geralt as they pass. A couple of the women call greetings to Geralt, who Jaskier notices is looking rather sheepish. He wonders how many of the priestesses he’d gotten frisky in the bathhouse with. A line of questioning for later, Jaskier decides.

They find Yennefer, Ciri, and Dara sitting at one of the long tables, feasting on bread with jam and honey, smoked meat, and eggs. Yennefer looks up at them with an arched eyebrow as they approach and Jaskier notices that her hand is wrapped in a fresh bandage.

“Took the two of you long enough,” Yennefer says. “Enjoy your baths?”

“That bathhouse is a gift and I may never leave it for the rest of the time we’re here.” Jaskier settles down on the bench next to her. “Ooh, is that smoked ham?”

“I hope you’re not going to get us kicked out again, Geralt,” Yennefer murmurs and it’s clearly a comment meant for Geralt’s ears alone, not for the children on the other side of the table. Jaskier glances over to see Geralt turning pink on Yennefer’s other side and _now_ Jaskier is intrigued.

An image comes to mind unbidden— Geralt and Yennefer in the flickering candlelight of the bathhouse, water glistening on their skin, Geralt’s hands on Yennefer’s hips and her back arched, head thrown back as she—

“Jaskier.”

Jaskier clears his throat. “Yes, Yennefer?”

“Take some ham before Ciri eats it all. She’s had six pieces already.”

“I’m _starving._ ” Ciri rolls her eyes. “And you’ve had nearly as much as me!”

“Thanks.” Jaskier avoids Yennefer’s eyes as he takes a couple of pieces of ham from the plate. He’s not sure where that mental image came from, but he’s trying not to let it rise to the surface of his mind again. No matter how pretty a mental picture it is.

“How long are we staying here?” Dara asks.

“We leave tomorrow morning,” Geralt says. “Give us some time to rest our horses and get some supplies, but it’s not smart to linger here longer than that.”

“We couldn’t spend the winter here?” Ciri looks around hopefully. “We might be far enough north—”

“We’re not,” Geralt says. “Not when there are Temerian soldiers after Yennefer. And I won’t put these people at risk.”

Silence hangs between them for a long moment until a female voice says, “Geralt. I was wondering when you’d show up again. It’s been years.”

Geralt stands up and turns to see a small, stern-faced woman walking towards them.

“Let me look at you.” The woman’s stern visage softens a little bit as she peers up at Geralt. “You’re not eating well enough, I see.”

“We’ve been on the road for weeks,” Geralt says, looking rather shamefaced.

“I keep telling you, we’ve put far too much effort into patching you up over the years for you to take such poor care of yourself.” The woman peers around Geralt, expression going cold again. “Hello, Yennefer.”

“Nenneke.” Yennefer nods, looking every bit the untouchable sorceress. “A pleasure.”

It could not be clearer from her tone that it’s _not_ a pleasure.

“As always,” Nenneke says coolly. “And who are these young men?”

“These are Fion and Dara,” Geralt says. “We’re escorting them to their family home in Kaedwen. And this is Jaskier.” He settles a hand on Jaskier’s shoulder.

Jaskier stands up to bow to Nenneke. “Nice to meet you. Geralt has told me so much about you.”

“Oh, now I know you’re lying,” she says, but her eyes twinkle and Jaskier can see why she and Geralt are so fond of each other. They have the same dry sense of humor.

“Well, you five are welcome to stay as long as you want,” she adds to Geralt. “It’s going to be a hard winter.”

“We’ll only be here another night,” Geralt says. “Need to get Fion and Dara home.”

“Of course,” Nenneke says. “But if you were to not reach Fion and Dara’s home in time, I hope you know that you have a safe place for the winter here.”

Geralt inclines his head. “Thank you, Nenneke. We appreciate it.”

She reaches out to squeeze his arm. “I’ll leave you five to your breakfast. Come see me later, Geralt.”

***

Yennefer has always enjoyed the greenhouse at the Temple of Melitele. Like the rest of the temple, it’s quiet, and pleasantly warm, even in the winter. With nothing else to do while Geralt, Ciri, and Dara run out to get supplies and Jaskier is off somewhere probably getting into trouble, Yennefer walks among the plants in the greenhouse, breathing in the scents of all the herbs and flowers.

“Are you hiding from Nenneke?”

Yennefer turns to see Jaskier walking towards her, a spring in his step. He looks bright-eyed and cheerful after one good night’s sleep, when Yennefer still feels like a wraith. She sniffs. “Why would I be doing that?”

“Because I’ve been with Nenneke for most of the morning and you’ve been nowhere to be seen.”

“I just like it in here,” Yennefer says. “That of course has nothing to do with Nenneke’s terrible allergies that keep her out of the greenhouse.”

Jaskier grins and falls into step beside her. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of a sweet old lady, Yennefer.”

“If you think she’s ‘sweet,’ you’re in for a terrible surprise, bardling.” Yennefer rolls her eyes. “She’s never liked me. Geralt is like a son to her, so she never thought I was good enough for him.”

Jaskier frowns. “Well, that’s a load of nonsense.”

“What’s nonsense is that she likes _you._ ”

“Your verbal barbs hold a lot less sting now that I know you like to snuggle in your sleep.”

“I do not.” Yennefer scowls up at him. “You’re the one who clings like a godsdamned octopus.”

“I stopped you from freezing to death, didn’t I?”

“Yes, but at what cost?”

Jaskier’s gaze is warm as he looks down at her. “How’s your hand?”

“It was barely a—”

“Barely a scratch, I know. You remind me of Geralt when you say things like that”

Yennefer gives him a dirty look, which he returns with a radiant smile. He looks damn good in the white cotton clothing the temple provided, freshly shaven and smelling like lye soap. The bruise on his cheek from their ordeal with the bandits has nearly faded. She realizes that she’s staring and forces herself to look away.

“I do like it here,” Jaskier says. “I wish we could stay for more than a night. It would be a pleasant place to spend the winter.”

“Until soldiers or assassins came to burn it to the ground.”

He winces. “Yes, until then.”

“Don’t worry, I’m sure they’ll love you at Kaer Morhen.”

“Have you ever been?”

“No.” Yennefer shakes her head. “I always preferred spending my winters somewhere that wasn’t a crumbling castle in the mountains. I did meet one of Geralt’s brothers, Eskel, once. You two will get along.”

“Most people do like me,” Jaskier says.

“Most people are idiots.”

Jaskier snorts. “Oh, please, you can’t pretend that I haven’t won you over. Just a little.”

She turns to face him. “I’ll admit that if I had to choose between your company and that of the men who want to kill or kidnap me, I would probably choose yours.”

“I knew it was only a matter of time before we became best of friends.”

“Is that what you want to be, bardling? Friends?” Yennefer isn’t sure where the words come from. She doesn’t know what the fuck she’s doing. But he looks terribly appealing right now and part of her _wants_ in a way that she doesn’t have the time for right now.

Jaskier’s cheeks turn an adorable shake of pink. “Of course, Yenn. Who wouldn’t want to be your friend?” He plucks a flower from one of the pots and offers it to her with a flourish. “A token of our friendship.”

Yennefer adopts an expression of horror.

Jaskier’s eyes widen. “What?”

“You can’t just pluck flowers from Melitele’s sacred greenhouse, bardling. That’s a good way to have your prick fall off.”

“Melitele’s tits!” Jaskier yelps and drops the flower, then slaps his hand over his mouth.

Yennefer dissolves into laughter. After a moment of stunned horror, Jaskier joins her. Several priestesses turn to stare at them.

“You’re fucking with me, aren’t you?” Jaskier demands.

“Well, you’ll find out as soon as you and Geralt go to take another bath together.”

“We’re not friends anymore.”

“You’re the one who picked the flower. Don’t blame me.”

They both begin to giggle again. More priestesses turn to see what the fuss is about. “We should leave,” Jaskier manages to say through his laughter.

“Yes, probably.” Yennefer lets him take her hand and drag her out of the greenhouse. Once they’re standing outside in the chilly morning air, away from the disapproving eyes of the priestesses, they stop trying to contain their laughter.

“You horrible woman,” Jaskier says, wiping his eyes. “You really had me scared for a moment there.”

“You deserve it, for picking other people’s flowers.”

“What can I say? I’ve never shown good judgement when faced with beauty.” His blue eyes meet hers, shining and crinkled with laughter, and Yennefer feels the absurd urge to reach up and cup his face in her hands, capture that smile with her mouth, taste his laughter on her tongue. She has to take a step back, lest she lose her head entirely and do it.

Oh, _fuck._

***

Geralt, Ciri, and Dara are able to find reasonably priced tack for Kelpie in Ellander— Nenneke has a lot of influence in this town and makes damn sure that Geralt is treated well when he’s here. As soon as they return to the Temple of Melitele, Ciri and Dara scamper off excitedly to the stables (Dara is acting much less nervous around horses, which is a relief. If he needed to climb the mountain to Kaer Morhen on foot, it would slow them down significantly.) Geralt watches to make sure they safely reach the stables, then starts to head towards the temple.

Laughter rings through the air and he turns to see Yennefer and Jaskier standing outside the greenhouse, both laughing uncontrollably. Geralt hasn’t seen Yennefer laugh like that in… well, ever. Her head is thrown back and she’s clutching her stomach, like it hurts to laugh that hard. Neither she nor Jaskier notice Geralt walking by; their focus is entirely on each other. Jaskier is looking at Yennefer with open fondness on his face and Yennefer’s expression is equally warm. Jaskier normally looks at Geralt like that. Yennefer used to look at Geralt like that.

That’s something Geralt will need to think about when they’re safely at Kaer Morhen, he decides. He doesn’t have time to parse the complicated mix of emotions that fill him at the sight of the two of them enjoying each other’s company.

He finds Nenneke in her study, having a stern conversation with two young students who were caught getting up to mischief. Geralt waits in the hallway and tries not to have flashbacks to the time he showed up here with a griffin talon still sticking out of his neck because he hadn’t even noticed it. Not even Vesemir’s stern talks can compare to Nenneke’s. Once the shame-faced girls have gone, Nenneke calls for Geralt and he steps inside.

“Close the door behind you,” Nenneke says. Once Geralt complies, she reaches into her desk and withdraws several pieces of parchment. “I thought you should see this.”

The top one is a near-perfect picture of Yennefer, though they didn’t quite get the shape of her jaw or the color of her eyes right. The second one is Ciri, but with the long hair she had when Geralt first found her. The third is Jaskier, which sends an ice cold jolt of fear down his spine. The fourth is probably supposed to be Dara, though the sketch looks very little like the boy Geralt has been traveling with for weeks. The fifth is Geralt himself, if Geralt was a fanged, nightmarish monster.

Geralt stares down at the monstrous image of himself. “Would have been nice to know this before I took Ciri and Dara into town today.”

“None of these ever hung in Ellander,” the priestess says. “And they vanished from the surrounding towns mysteriously after being up for only a day. You’re safe here. Would you like to tell me why the Temerian crown is after you?”

“No clue.” Geralt saved Foltest’s daughter from an eternity as a cursed, man-eating creature. He’s surprised by how much it bothers him that the king would put a warrant on his head. “Knew about the warrants for Yennefer and Ciri, but not about the others.”

“Were you planning to tell me that one of the young men traveling with you is actually Princess Cirilla of Cintra?”

“No,” Geralt says simply. “Safer for you if you don’t know.”

“And it’s safer for my priestesses and my students if I know what’s going on in my own temple.”

He grimaces. “If you want us out—”

“Don’t be foolish. I meant what I said when I told you that you’re welcome to stay for the winter. We’ve gotten many new students in the past few months who are fleeing from the south. The princess and Dara would blend in.”

“Too risky.” Geralt doesn’t elaborate. He trusts Nenneke with his life, but he won’t tell her about Ciri’s powers.

“What’s your plan, then?” Nenneke asks. “Hide her in Kaer Morhen for forever? She’s a twelve year old girl, Geralt. You can’t keep her on a mountaintop for the rest of her life.”

“My plan is to do whatever I need to do to keep her safe for as long as Nilfgaard and King Foltest and whoever else are looking for her,” Geralt says. “Right now, that’s Kaer Morhen. It won’t be forever.”

“Eventually, when the situation has died down, you should consider bringing her to school here.” Nenneke raises her hand to stop Geralt’s protest. “She wouldn’t be the only student here who’s hiding from someone. We know how to keep people safe in this temple. That girl will need to know how to do things beyond stab monsters.”

“Jaskier keeps saying that.”

“Jaskier seems like a bright young man. Well-suited for you.”

Geralt likes thinking of Jaskier as being well-suited to him, a rare splash of color and joy in a lifestyle that doesn’t allow for much of it. “Hm.”

“They’re all lucky to have you, Geralt,” Nenneke says. “I know you’ll do right by the children.”

He’s surprised by how deeply it touches him to hear those words. Swallowing back the sudden lump in his throat, he says, “I’m doing my best to keep them safe and away from Nilfgaard.”

Her lips curl into a small smile. “Sometimes that’s all you can do.”

***

Their day at the Temple of Melitele is everything Jaskier needed after weeks on the road. For the first time since his time at Cintra’s court, he spends it doing largely nothing— laughing with Yennefer in the greenhouse, visiting the horses with Ciri and Dara, chatting with a couple of the priestesses in the library. And the whole time, trying not to think about that moment where he was laughing with Yennefer outside the greenhouse and she looked at him with such warmth in her gaze that he couldn’t look away from her.

He tries not to watch her that night during dinner. She’s sitting between Ciri and Dara, telling them stories about her time at Aretuza and the time she had to catch lightning in a bottle. Both Dara and Ciri are paying rapt attention to her story. Yennefer looks relaxed and happy, smiling fondly down at her audience. Relaxed and happy is a damn good look on Yennefer.

Melitele's tits, Jaskier is really starting to think he might be in trouble here.

To distract himself, he strikes up a conversation with a couple of musically inclined priestesses. Once his head is sufficiently cleared, he goes to find Geralt in the bathhouse. Geralt is reclining in the enormous tub with his legs propped up against the edge and his head tilted back. The witcher doesn’t move when Jaskier steps into the bathhouse and Jaskier would think he was asleep, if he didn’t know that Geralt would never doze when he was in such a defenseless position. Jaskier stands in the doorway, watching his lover for a long moment. It’s nice to see Geralt like this, utterly relaxed.

“You just going to stand there and stare at me?” Geralt grumbles.

Jaskier’s lips quirk. “That was the plan, unless you have a better one.”

“You could join me.”

“I don’t know, you look so comfortable. I’d hate to interfere.”

Geralt cracks one eye open. “Jaskier, get naked and get in here.”

“Well, when you put it that way.” Jaskier takes his time pulling off his clothes, reveling in the way Geralt watches him avidly. “What happened to fearing Nenneke’s wrath?”

“Let’s not bring up Nenneke right now.”

Jaskier clambers into the tub and Geralt pulls him into his lap. Jaskier leans against his chest and just lies there for a moment. It’s soothing to have the warmth of Geralt’s skin under his cheek and his lover’s arms around his waist. The water laps gently at the sides of the bathtub as Jaskier snuggles closer.

“I thought you were going to ravish me.” Jaskier presses a kiss to Geralt’s chest. “Turns out you just want to cuddle.”

“Hm.” Geralt huffs a laugh into Jaskier’s hair. “I can do both.”

Jaskier props his chin on his lover’s shoulder and peers up at him. “Something on your mind?”

“Nothing worth talking about. I’ll just be glad when I have the four of you safe at Kaer Morhen.”

“The _five_ of _us,_ ” Jaskier reminds him. “We’re a team, Geralt. And none of that self-sacrificing ‘I’m not worried about my own safety’ bullshit, or I’ll—”

Geralt smothers his words in a kiss. Jaskier would protest, if he didn’t forget what he was saying as soon as Geralt’s lips meet his. Geralt is a damn good kisser, a balance of passionate and playful, always seeming to sense what Jaskier wants as soon as Jaskier realizes. Jaskier wonders how much of that is due to Yennefer, who seems like the type of woman to be vocal about what she wants from a lover. The thought sends a delicious shiver up Jaskier’s spine.

“Mm.” Geralt’s hand wraps around Jaskier’s cock, his own length pressed against Jaskier’s thigh.

Jaskier gasps into Geralt’s mouth as the witcher’s deft hand begins to stroke up and down his cock. The caress of his lover’s calluses against the sensitive skin of his prick, the gentle strength of his grip, the way Geralt’s golden eyes are fixed on Jaskier hungrily… it’s all enough that Jaskier can already feel heat building in his belly after only a few strokes.

There’s a tap on the door and a tremulous young woman’s voice calls, “Master Witcher?”

Geralt and Jaskier both freeze, Geralt’s hand still wrapped around Jaskier’s cock.

“Mother Nenneke sent me. I’m to remind you that…” There’s an outburst of giggles from outside the door, then a shushing noise. “That the bathhouse is for bathing, sir.”

Jaskier buries his face in Geralt’s shoulder and prays for Melitele to take him right then and there.

Geralt clears his throat. “We’ll be right out.”

Quiet footsteps hurry away, not quickly enough that Jaskier and Geralt can’t hear the priestesses’ giggling.

Jaskier doesn’t lift his face from Geralt’s shoulder. “I feel like I’m back at Oxenfurt, getting caught kissing pretty girls in the library.”

“That happen often?”

“Oh, all the time,” Jaskier says. “I’m never going to be able to look Nenneke in the eye again, am I?”

“She’s used to it. You should see what the priestesses get up to in here.”

And now that piques Jaskier’s interest, because there are some very attractive women among the dedicates of Melitele.

Geralt chuckles. “You’re incorrigible.”

“You love it.”

“I do.” Geralt nuzzles Jaskier’s hair. “Don’t worry about it. She used to kick Yennefer and I out of here all the time.”

Jaskier’s mouth goes dry. He can picture them clearly— Yennefer’s head thrown back as she rides Geralt, her hands gripping his hair, his hands resting on the swell of her ass. They must have been stunningly beautiful together, with her black hair and Geralt’s pure white, her violet eyes and his gold, her slender frame with his broader one.

Jaskier realizes that his erection, which flagged with embarrassment at the interruption, is rising again and tries hurriedly to think of anything else. He clears his throat. “I think we should vacate the bathhouse, don’t you, my love? Because we mortify any more priestesses. Or me.”

“Hm, if you stay so.” Geralt stands up, lifting Jaskier in a bridal carry, causing Jaskier to yelp out a laugh. For a moment, Jaskier wonders if he’s going to be borne back to their bedroom naked— an idea that he admittedly doesn’t hate. Instead, Geralt sets him down and tosses him a towel. “Hurry up and get dressed.”

Jaskier dries himself off and scrambles into his clothes at record speed. He and Geralt hurry back to their bedroom and as soon as the door is closed and locked behind them, Geralt drags Jaskier into a kiss. Jaskier fumbles out of his clothes, desperate to have his mouth and his hands on every inch of Geralt he can reach. When they’re both naked, he falls backward onto the bed, bringing Geralt with him. Geralt braces his arms on either side of Jaskier’s head and kisses him sweetly.

“Jask,” Geralt murmurs, voice so achingly gentle that it makes Jaskier smile against his mouth. “I missed this. I missed you.”

“I’m here,” Jaskier tells him. “You don’t have to miss me anymore.”

Geralt kisses his way down Jaskier’s body. Jaskier knows what’s coming next and his whole body tingles with anticipation as Geralt’s stubble rasps against his skin and his lips travel downwards. When his mouth wraps around Jaskier’s cock, Jaskier gasps at the heat of his mouth. Geralt watches Jaskier as he sucks and licks, looking incredibly smug at Jaskier’s moans of pleasure. Jaskier knows that Geralt loves getting him off as much as he loves getting off himself. Geralt’s hands slide up Jaskier’s thighs to cup his ass, lifting him up to get a better angle.

“Gods, that feels so fucking good,” Jaskier manages to say. “Fuck, Geralt, your mouth—”

Geralt swallows him deeper and Jaskier loses the capacity for speech. Jaskier can feel his peak approaching, until Geralt releases his cock with a wet _pop._ Jaskier whines in protest, canting his hips up, but Geralt ignores him. The witcher lifts Jaskier’s hips up, mouthing at his balls, and then his mouth travels lower until Jaskier feels the flicker of Geralt’s tongue against his hole.

Melitele’s sweet tits, Jaskier is never going to let this man out of this bed again.

He dissolves into insensible pleasure at the flicker of Geralt’s tongue working him open, muffling his moans with his forearm. One of Geralt’s fingers circles his rim, not quite pressing in, as Geralt fucks him with the tip of his tongue. It’s such a tiny movement, but it feels fucking incredible. Jaskier takes his cock in hand and strokes in time with the thrusts of Geralt’s tongue. Geralt growls his appreciation and Jaskier feels his knees go watery at the sound. When he comes with a muffled cry, spurting into his hand, Geralt gently nips at his ass, then peppers his thighs and belly with kisses.

“Fuck.” Geralt’s voice is hoarse. “Turn over.”

Jaskier scrambles to comply, thighs still quivering with residual pleasure. On his hands and knees, he watches over his shoulder as Geralt grabs a jar of oil from his bag and slicks up his cock and fingers. When he starts working Jaskier open with his fingers, Jaskier whimpers in pleasure. Geralt’s presses kisses to Jaskier’s back as he works, his touch gentle. Jaskier thinks he might burst with how in love he is with this man— and how badly he wants Geralt inside of him.

“Geralt,” he says after what feels like a truly excessive amount of time being worked open.

Geralt only presses another kiss to Jaskier’s back, unrepentant.

“I’m ready,” Jaskier tells him. “No one has ever been as ready for a cock inside of them as I am right now.”

“Hm, don’t know about that.” Geralt scissors his fingers wickedly.

Jaskier groans. “You know, you really are a terrible tease. One of these days, I’m going to turn the tables on you and then you’ll be sorry.”

Geralt nips at his shoulder. “You’re not patient enough to be a tease.”

“Is that a challenge, Geralt of Rivia? Because you know how I feel about challenges.”

Geralt smiles wolfishly. Jaskier could write a hundred ballads about that smile. But Jaskier’s argument must be compelling enough, because Geralt slides his fingers out of Jaskier and lines his cock up with Jaskier’s hole. When the head of Geralt’s cock breaches him, Jaskier groans at the girth of him. Geralt pauses, giving Jaskier a moment to adjust, and then slowly works his way inside, inch by glorious inch.

Jaskier will never get tired of this, he decides as Geralt begins fucking him. Geralt’s hands are planted on Jaskier’s hips, his fingers digging in just hard enough that Jaskier knows he’ll have bruises in the morning. When Jaskier looks back at him, he sees that Geralt’s face is slack with pleasure, his eyes closed and his head tilted back. Seeing him like this feels as intimate as having Geralt inside of him. He doubts Geralt lets himself look this vulnerable with most of his lovers. Yennefer is most likely the only other person who has ever seen him like this.

And fuck, now Jaskier is picturing her again. But this time, he’s not picturing her and Geralt fucking ten years ago. No, he’s imagining her here with _them._ Watching Geralt fuck him with half-lidded eyes, or even better, with her legs wrapped around Jaskier’s waist and her fingernails digging into his back, letting Jaskier fuck her while Geralt fucks him. He whimpers at the image and Geralt begins snapping his hips harder, spurred on by Jaskier’s arousal.

When Geralt comes with a gasped groan, he collapses on top of Jaskier. They lay there for a long, breathless moment with Geralt softening inside of Jaskier and Geralt’s arm around Jaskier’s waist. Jaskier closes his eyes and focuses on the here and now, this perfect moment with the man he loves. He tries not to imagine Yennefer lying here with them, of being tucked between the two most beautiful people on the Continent.

He already has everything he could ever want. He shouldn’t be greedy.

“How much longer until we have another night in a bed?” Jaskier asks when he manages to regain his senses.

“If there are no more delays, maybe a week and a half until we get to Kaer Morhen.”

“Well, then we have a week and a half worth of fucking to do. Give me twenty minutes and then we can go again.”

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed the fluff and the smut while it lasted :)
> 
> I'm going to try my best to keep up with the Thursday update schedule, but I'm increasingly busy with Real Life things, as well as a couple of other projects, so if future chapters are a bit late, apologies in advance.


	8. the right choice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _One of Yennefer’s duties at Aedirn’s court was to detect any poisons that someone tried to slip the king. Attempted assassinations were practically a hobby among Aedirn’s nobility and she became very familiar with the scents of various poisons— the mustiness of hemlock, the floral scent of belladonna, the bitterness of monkshood. Even with the bottle stoppered, she can detect a faint sour scent emanating from it. She feels her heart drop to somewhere in the vicinity of her belly button._   
>  _She knows what this is, the poison they gave all the residents of the Cintran palace, the merciful death they were granted rather being subject to the Nilfgaardian soldiers’ cruelty._   
>  _What she doesn’t know is why it’s sitting in Jaskier’s bags, tucked in between his spare quill and a pair of stockings._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for discussion of suicide relating to the poison Jaskier took from Cintra and his decision to keep it, as well as a brief reference to Yennefer's suicide attempt in episode 2.

The next morning, Geralt and Jaskier meet Yennefer, Ciri, and Dara in the stables at the crack of dawn. The group is subdued, and not just because of the early hour. Geralt knows that Jaskier, Dara, and Ciri would be happy to stay the winter here. If it weren’t for the people after them, Geralt would be happy to stay. He can’t deny the call of warm baths and filling regular meals and waking up in a comfortable bed with Jaskier in his arms every morning. But they’ll have that in Kaer Morhen too, he reminds himself as he saddles Roach up. 

When the horses are saddled and ready to go, Geralt reaches into his saddlebag and withdraws the wanted posters that Nenneke showed him the day before. “There’s something you all need to see before we go.”

“That’s me.” Ciri’s brow furrows when she sees the drawing of her.

Dara’s Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “It’s all of us.”

“Fuck,” Yennefer growls. “This has King Foltest’s seal on it.”

“But why would King Foltest be after us?” Ciri looks between Geralt and Yennefer. “Temeria was an ally of Cintra. They helped defend Sodden. Why would they put a bounty on my head?”

“I don’t know,” Geralt says. “But I intend to find out.”

“Why didn’t you tell us this yesterday?” Jaskier frowns down at his own image. Geralt expected a joke about how the artist didn’t quite get his jawline right or an exclamation of horror over the hideous drawing of Geralt. Jaskier’s silence disconcerts him.

“I wanted you to all have a day where you didn’t have to worry about things like this,” Geralt tells him. “Where you could be happy and feel safe.”

Jaskier nods. 

“We’re a day’s ride from the Kaedweni border if we make good time,” Geralt says. “It would be less if we traveled the main roads, but we can’t risk that. If we don’t stop riding until tonight and leave at dawn, we should be there by tomorrow afternoon. We’ll need to avoid other travelers the best we can and do nothing to draw attention to ourselves.”

Everyone looks at Jaskier, who plants his hands on his hips and harrumphs. “Why are you all looking at me? Why are you not looking at the sorceress with _purple_ eyes? She’s a little more likely than me to draw attention!”

“Because I have some sense of subtlety, bardling,” Yennefer says.

“Oh, that is some bullshit.”

With Yennefer and Jaskier bickering cheerfully, the mood in the group lifts as they lead Roach, Pegasus, and Kelpie from the stables.

“Were you planning to leave without saying goodbye?”

Geralt looks around to see Nenneke walking towards them. He hands Roach’s reins to Jaskier and goes to meet her. “Didn’t want to wake you this early. It’s best we head out.”

“I hope you stopped in the kitchens to get food for the road?”

He nods. “We did.”

“And I really can’t convince you to spend the winter?”

“You know why not.”

Nenneke sighs and reaches up to pat his cheek, like she would a child. She’s always treated him like a son, even though they’re nearly the same age. “Just be careful.”

He nods. “And if any soldiers show up looking for us—”

“I’ll tell them you were going north, towards Kovir.”

Geralt frowns. “You shouldn’t lie to them. It could end badly for you if you were found out.”

“Why don’t you let me worry about that?”

He sighs, knowing he can’t convince her otherwise. “Thank you, Nenneke.”

“Of course,” she says. “You know you’re always welcome here.”

She stands there and watches them go. Geralt can feel her gaze on his back until they round the corner and disappear out of sight.

***

True to Geralt’s word, they stick to a winding back road as they travel, careful to steer the horses around roots and holes in the road. Exhausted and on edge, Yennefer is already miserable, and they’ve only been traveling for a few hours.

Walking along next to her, Jaskier has a spring in his step, despite the early hour and his obvious reluctance to leave the temple. Given the noises Yennefer heard from his and Geralt’s bedroom the night before, she can understand why he’s in such a good mood. She can also understand why he chose to walk rather than ride horseback. When he starts to whistle, she frowns down at him from Pegasus.

“Really, bardling? And I was just starting to find your company tolerable.”

“You seem to change your mind about whether you or not you find me tolerable hourly, Yennefer, so forgive me if I don’t spend too much time worrying about it.”

She rolls her eyes. “Just try to keep it down. I found our accommodations rather noisy last night. I had trouble sleeping.”

Jaskier’s face turns purple and even Geralt looks sheepish.

“Really?” Ciri asks, frowning. “I didn’t hear a thing.”

Still flushing, Jaskier quickly points out an unusual looking cloud in the sky (it looks like a normal cloud to Yennefer) and they change the subject.

They ride without stopping for so much as a quick trip into the woods to relieve themselves. Every time Yennefer thinks about protesting— her thighs and ass ache after an entire day on horseback— she remembers the helplessness of being bound, blindfolded, and thrown over the back of a horse. They need to get out of this miserable fucking kingdom before any more soldiers or bandits catch up to them.

Yennefer tries not to pay attention to Jaskier, instead focusing on chatting with Ciri and Dara and making sure that Pegasus doesn’t trip over any of the rocks in the road. But it’s impossible not to be at least somewhat aware of him. He’s right there, humming to himself and talking Geralt’s ear off about nothing and trying to feed sugar cubes to an apathetic Roach. It should be irritating.

But instead of being annoyed, she keeps finding herself watching the way he moves. He talks with his hands, waving them around in the air as he chatters. He has lovely fingers, she notices. And the ill-fitting clothes he stole from the farm can’t hide the way his hips move from side to side as he walks and the shapeliness of his thighs and…

“For fuck’s sake,” Yennefer grumbles.

Jaskier’s attention snaps to her. “Is there a problem, my dear?”

“Yes.” Yennefer is apparently unable to stop staring at Jaskier like a lovelorn teenager. “Your incessant chatter.”

“Love you too, Yennefer.”

Yennefer feels her traitorous heart pick up in her chest and Geralt looks over at with a raised eyebrow, clearly noticing the change. Yennefer avoids his gaze.

By the time they stop to make camp that night, the entire group is exhausted and chilled to the bone. It’s been drizzling since mid-afternoon and even Jaskier seems to have lost his good cheer in the face of sore feet, damp clothes, and the promise of a night without a campfire. He still makes a show of helping Yennefer down from her horse. Yennefer tries not to flush at the feeling of Jaskier’s hands on her waist or the awareness of how much taller he is than her.

She’s hyper-aware of everything Jaskier and Geralt do as they set up the camp. Out of the corner of her eye, she watches as Jaskier plants a hand on Geralt’s lower back while Geralt tends to the horses. She sees the way Geralt leans into the touch, his sour expression lessening somewhat. The two men stand together for a moment, engaged in a low conversation that Yennefer can’t hear. It’s only when she notices that her hands have paused in her saddlebags that she realizes how blatantly she’s trying to eavesdrop. Shaking her head at herself, she finishes what she was doing.

They settle down for a miserable, soggy night. The rain stops eventually, but everything is still too wet to start a fire. Yennefer tries to give Ciri another magic lesson, but they’re both grumpy and out of sorts. When they finally give up, Geralt takes over, offering to give both Ciri and Dara some basic swordplay. Yennefer tries not to be put out by how much more enthusiastic Ciri seems to be about swords than magic. Jaskier shoots Yennefer a sympathetic smile.

“You know, one of the priestesses slipped me a flask of honeyed mead this morning,” he whispers conspiratorially. “I might be willing to share.”

“Are you sure it’s not poison?” she asks.

“Unlikely.” He shrugs. “I wasn’t at the temple long enough for any women to want to kill me.”

“You underestimate yourself.”

Across the clearing, Yennefer hears Geralt snort.

Since she’s standing up anyway, she goes to find the flask in his saddle bags. His bags are absurdly full and she wonders if he brought everything he owned when he left Cintra. She rifles through his bags until her fingers close over a bottle. But instead of a flask of mead, she withdraws a small, inconspicuous-looking vial.

One of Yennefer’s duties at Aedirn’s court was to detect any poisons that someone tried to slip the king. Attempted assassinations were practically a hobby among Aedirn’s nobility and she became very familiar with the scents of various poisons— the mustiness of hemlock, the floral scent of belladonna, the bitterness of monkshood. Even with the bottle stoppered, she can detect a faint sour scent emanating from it. She feels her heart drop to somewhere in the vicinity of her belly button.

She knows what this is, the poison they gave all the residents of the Cintran palace, the merciful death they were granted rather being subject to the Nilfgaardian soldiers’ cruelty.

What she doesn’t know is why it’s sitting in Jaskier’s bags, tucked in between his spare quill and a pair of stockings.

“Jaskier?” she calls.

“Yes? Oh no, not that bag, the other—” Jaskier comes jogging up to her. When he sees what’s in her hand, he freezes.

“What’s this?” Yennefer holds up the bottle. She knows the answer, but she needs to hear him say it.

Jaskier swallows and darts a glance over at Geralt, Ciri, and Dara, who remain oblivious. “It’s the poison from Cintra.”

“Why do you still have it?”

“I brought it with me when I left.”

“Why?” Yennefer’s voice comes out a growl.

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Geralt glance in their direction.

Jaskier must notice it too, because he lowers his voice. “Does it matter?”

“Yes.” Yennefer is suddenly very aware of the scars on her wrists, hidden by the long sleeves of her dress.

“I’m keeping it just in case, Yenn,” he says, so quietly that she can barely hear him..

“Just in case what?” Yennefer’s voice cracks like a whip, with her making no attempt to stay quiet.

“Just in case I get captured.” Jaskier reaches out and takes the bottle from her, tucking it back into his saddlebag. His face is the grimmest she’s ever seen it.

Yennefer stares at him, horrified. “That’s your plan if you get captured? To drink poison?”

“My plan is to stop myself from being used against the rest of you.” Jaskier’s jaw clenches. “I know myself well enough to know that I won’t withstand torture. If worst comes to worst, I’ll choose the quick, painless option.”

“That’s not the right choice.” Not for Jaskier. The thought of bright, joyful Jaskier raising that little bottle to his lips, sacrificing himself for the rest of them, is like an icicle to Yennefer’s heart. 

“How would you know?” Jaskier snaps and she’s surprised by the heat in his voice. “When you get your chaos sorted out, you’ll be back to being someone who can level armies with your powers. And this is all I’ll ever be.” He gestures at himself. “Just a bard. I know that I’m the weak link in this group. I know that if someone is going to get taken hostage, it will be me. So I’ve taken precautions. I’m sorry that I didn’t get your approval first.”

Yennefer wants to shake him, because how can he be so casual about his own life? How can he think for an instant that they’re worth sacrificing himself for? Ciri and Dara, yes, but her and Geralt? They’re far too old and too damaged to be worth his life.

It’s at that moment that Yennefer realizes that this thing she feels for Jaskier isn’t a simple attraction or a girlish crush. Because if she had to choose between watching him drink a mouthful or poison or throwing herself on a Nilfgaardian soldier’s blade, she would choose the latter without hesitation.

She can feel Geralt, Ciri, and Dara watching them now and she can’t stand here anymore, feeling raw and exposed.

Jaskier calls her name as she turns and stalks into the woods. She doesn’t look back.

***

Geralt learned long ago that it’s best to leave Yennefer to her own devices when she’s angry about something— sometimes for a couple of hours, sometimes for a day or two, and sometimes for a decade. But they’re in the middle of the Temerian woods, it’s nighttime, and while Geralt doesn't hear anything dangerous in the forest, that doesn’t mean that there’s nothing out there. With a curse, he sheathes his swords and goes after her.

“Geralt—” Jaskier starts as Geralt passes him by. He looks abjectly miserable.

“I’ll be back,” Geralt tells him. He wants to offer comfort, but it’s too dangerous to leave Yennefer wandering around in the woods by herself.

He catches up to her quickly, falling into step behind her without saying anything.

She doesn’t look back at him. “I wanted to be alone.”

“Then pretend I’m not here.”

Yennefer turns on him with a snarl. “Did you know that he carries poison around with him?”

“Yes.”

It’s clearly not the answer she was expecting. For the first time since Geralt has known her, she looks caught off guard.

“I searched his bag not long after we left Cintra and found it,” Geralt tells her. “Had to make sure he wasn’t a Nilfgaardian spy.”

“So you know what he’s planning to do?”

“He’s not planning to do anything, Yennefer.” It’s a struggle to keep his voice even, because every time he thinks of Jaskier sitting in the Cintran palace with that bottle of poison in his hand, he wants to break something. He came so close to losing Jaskier that night. And the worst part is, he never would have known what he lost. Jaskier was just an annoying, fluttery bard to him back then. Had he died, Geralt never would have given him another thought.

“I don’t—” Yennefer, normally so quick with a witty comeback, who has always known her own mind with perfect clarity, visibly struggles for words. “We can’t let him—”

“What are you actually angry about, Yenn?”

Yennefer looks at him with an inscrutable expression. “He doesn’t deserve to ever have to make a decision like that. Between being tortured for information or choosing death.”

“No, he doesn’t.” Geralt swallows hard. “And I plan to never let that happen.”

“And what if you fail?”

He just shakes his head, because the thought of that is something he can’t even consider. The thought that there might be a situation someday where drinking that poison is Jaskier’s best option is excruciating.

“Maybe we should leave him in Ard Carraigh,” Yennefer says. “He’s a bard, he’ll do well in the city over the winter. People will be bored and looking for entertainment. And he’ll be safe.”

“His name is too tightly linked to ours. He’ll be just in much danger apart from us as with us, and he won’t have us there to protect him.” Geralt hesitates, unsure of how to proceed. He’s seen the way Yennefer looks as Jaskier— the way they look at each other. He heard her heart rate pick up when Jaskier jokingly told her that he loved her. He smelled her spike of arousal when Jaskier lifted her down from her horse. Geralt knows he needs to acknowledge it, but he doesn’t know how.

“It’s okay to care about him, Yenn.” The words come out awkward and stilted. Fuck it, Jaskier should really be the one having this conversation. Jaskier’s the poet.

“He’s not as unbearable as I originally thought, I’ll give him that.”

“Don’t do that.” Geralt shakes his head. “If you… care about Jaskier, the three of us can figure something out. I won’t get in between the two of you.”

He and Yennefer both slept with other people when they were lovers— sometimes together, sometimes apart. Feelings were never involved before, which may complicate this, but Geralt won’t stand in the way of the happiness of two people he cares about.

“There’s nothing for you to get in between.”

“Yennefer—”

She whirls on him. “There’s _nothing._ I tolerate his company. I occasionally find him amusing. But don’t act like there’s anything more. But just because you’ve gone silly over him, don’t expect me to. I made a fool out of myself over you once, and I won’t fucking do it again, especially not for that idiot peacock of a bard.”

It’s only then that Geralt hears the sharp inhalation of breath and he looks around to see Jaskier standing there. In the darkness, Yennefer probably can’t see him, but Geralt can make out the outline of him, shoulders hunched against the cold. Or maybe just against Yennefer’s words. As Geralt watches, Jaskier pivots on his heels and heads back towards the camp.

Yennefer lets out a shaky breath. “Did he…”

“Yes.” Geralt turns back to face her. “That idiot peacock of a bard saved my life at Sodden. He could be safe in Oxenfurt or Novigrad, but he chose to keep traveling with us. He’s willing to lay down his life for me, for you, for Ciri and Dara. And he cares about you.”

Yennefer doesn’t reply, so they walk back to the camp in silence. It seems there’s nothing more to say.

***

Jaskier has been called worse things than “idiot peacock of a bard.” Yennefer herself has probably called him worse things. But something about the disdain dripping from her voice and the scornful twist of her mouth hit him like a punch in the gut. He thought they were past this. He thought that they were at a point where the ribbing between them was playful, maybe even affectionate. He thought… well, it doesn’t matter what he thought anymore. He was wrong.

When he gets back to camp, he goes straight to his bedroll and lies down, feigning a sudden surge of exhaustion. Ciri and Dara don’t say anything, just watch him with wide eyes. While they don’t know the details, he’s sure they’re old enough to guess at what’s going on between him and Yennefer and he doesn’t want any questions about it. When he hears Geralt and Yennefer return to the camp, he lies very still, keeping his breathing deep and even. He knows he won’t fool Geralt, but hopefully he can at least avoid more conversation.

He can’t look at Yennefer right now, not when _“idiot peacock of a bard”_ is still rattling around in his head.

When Geralt comes to lie down next to Jaskier, pressing his chest against Jaskier’s back, he brushes his mouth across Jaskier’s ear and whispers, “I’m sorry.”

Jaskier doesn’t know what to say, so he keeps quiet until he finally drifts off to sleep.

He still doesn’t know what to say the next morning, when they leave the camp before the sun has fully risen. It’s a gray, misty morning, which seems appropriate for his mood. Jaskier keeps his head down as they pack up camp, only speaking when spoken too. For her part, Yennefer seems all too happy to avoid conversation with him; she avoids his gaze as carefully as he avoids hers. It’s only when she tells him that he can ride Pegasus today that he finally has to interact.

“No, I insist.” He gives her his most courtly smile, the one he would normally reserve for a patron unhappy with his choice of song. “You take the horse. I’m perfectly content on foot.”

“I got the horse yesterday.” Yennefer’s voice and expression are both carefully neutral. “It’s only fair that you get him today.”

“I assure you, it’s no trouble.”

“Don’t be—”

“Just share the damn horse,” Geralt says tersely. “Yennefer’s light enough that it should work until we get over the border.”

Jaskier loves Geralt more than life itself. But at this moment, he would happily shove him into a pile of zeugl dung.

Ciri and Dara are sharing a horse too, he tells himself as he swings himself up onto Pegasus’s back and reaches down to pull Yennefer up. It makes sense for them to all ride horseback. They’re half a day’s ride from the Kaedweni border and they’ll get faster if they don’t have to keep pace with someone on foot. That doesn’t stop him from being acutely aware of the press of Yennefer against him and the warmth of her body.

Yesterday, he would have let himself enjoy it. Today, he holds himself still. “Comfortable?” he asks her.

He expects a biting remark. Instead he gets, “I’m fine.”

It’s a long, quiet ride to Kaedwen.

As they get closer to the border, Jaskier half-expects to find an army blocking their path. Geralt seems to expect the same thing, growing tenser the closer they get. But they cross the border without incident and Jaskier hears Yennefer let out a long, relieved breath. In contrast, Jaskier’s trepidation only increases. After the constant attacks of the last few days, it shouldn’t have been so easy for them to get out of Temeria. Something should have happened— bandits or soldiers or another mage. Someone should have tried to stop them.

Unless there’s still someone lying in wait.

They continue to travel in silence, though Jaskier and Dara both dismount their horses soon after crossing the border. Jaskier can feel the boy shooting him sidelong glances as they walk, but Jaskier doesn’t have it in him to keep up a cheerful chatter. Every time he opens his mouth, he hears, _“Idiot peacock of a bard”_ and snaps it shut again.

The silence continues to hang over the group as they stop to make camp for the night. They go through the normal motions. Yennefer teaches Ciri magic while Geralt spars with Dara and Jaskier strums his lute. When Geralt asks if Jaskier wants to spar, Jaskier declines and Geralt doesn’t push the issue, which is how he knows his lover is walking on eggshells around him.

Jaskier volunteers to take first watch, sitting on the edge of the camp with his lute while the others settle down for the night. Except instead of lying down on his bedroll, Geralt comes to sit down next to Jaskier. They sit there in silence for a long time— Jaskier strumming a melody on his lute while Geralt flips his knife in the air in a rare nervous gesture— before Geralt speaks.

“Are you angry with me?” Geralt asks quietly.

“Why would I be angry at you, dear heart?”

“Because of what Yennefer said.”

“I'm not going to be angry at you over something someone else said.” Jaskier glances over at Yennefer, who appears to be soundly asleep. “She has the right to her opinion. And it’s not like she’s wrong.”

“She is,” Geralt says. “And she knows it too. Yennefer… is bad with emotions.”

Jaskier looks at him with a raised eyebrow.

Geralt’s lips quirk. “Worse than me, I think.”

“I say this in the most loving way imaginable, but I’m not sure if that’s possible.”

“She lashes out sometimes,” Geralt says. “It’s like she feels too much and it makes her angry. Happened a couple of times when she and I first became lovers. She never means it, though.”

“No, I think she meant it, Geralt. But thank you for trying to make me feel better.” Jaskier turns to face Geralt, taking in the witcher’s tense profile in the flickering firelight. “Are you angry with me?”

“There’s nothing to be angry about, Jask.”

“But the poison—”

“Every time I think about it, I want to smash it on a rock. But you kept it for a reason, and I trust your reason. I trust you.”

Jaskier turns to stare into the campfire. “When we were captured by Cahir, I knew that if they started to torture me, I would tell them everything I know. I would hate myself afterward, but I wouldn’t be able to stop myself. I was a court bard a month ago, Geralt. I’m not trained for this. You and Yennefer and Ciri and Dara are my family. I refuse to be a liability for you.”

“You’re not a liability, Jask.” Geralt reaches out and takes Jaskier’s hand. “You’re not a weakness just because you can’t swing a sword or cast a spell. You helped bring Dara out of his shell. You make Ciri laugh. You make the long days of traveling somewhat bearable.”

“Is that your way of telling me you like my music?”

“Don’t put words in my mouth.”

Jaskier chuckles and Geralt smiles fondly, before his expression sobers. “Just do me a favor.”

“Yeah?” Jaskier scoots closer to him.

“If it comes down to it and you think that your only choice is to drink the poison, wait. Wait until you’re absolutely sure that I won’t be able to get to you. Because I will always try to save you. I’ll never leave you behind.”

“I know.” And that’s why Jaskier keeps the poison, because he can’t stand the thought of Geralt getting hurt trying to save him, or leaving Ciri, Dara, and Yennefer unprotected. He can’t swing a sword or cast a spell to protect the people he loves. But at least he has this.

Geralt raises Jaskier’s hand to his lips and presses a kiss against his knuckles. And then he freezes. As soon as the other man’s body goes still and tense, Jaskier knows something is wrong. He turns to look into the darkness of the woods surrounding them, but he can’t see or hear anything with his normal human senses.

“What is it?”

Geralt releases Jaskier’s hand and leaps to his feet. “Someone’s coming.”

***

Yennefer wakes to someone shaking her by the shoulder. She jerks awake to find Geralt standing over her. “People on horseback are approaching,” he tells her in a low voice.

Next to her, she feels Ciri stir. “How many?” She fights to keep her voice calm.

“Too many.” There’s a grimness to the set of his jaw and a tension in his shoulders that tells her how much trouble they’re in, more than hysterics ever could. “They’re coming from all sides.”

“What do we do?” Jaskier comes up behind him, eyes wide. He’s clutching his lute to his chest like he’s either trying to use it as a shield or keep it safe.

“We fight and hope for the best. Everyone get your weapons.”

There’s a scramble as everyone reaches for knives and swords. Ciri is on her feet in an instant, sword in hand. She stares at the treeline with a determined expression that reminds Yennefer of Geralt. But determination won’t stop the people coming from them. Yennefer reaches into the pocket of her dress, fingers closing over the smooth metal of the xenovox Tissaia gave her. She didn’t have it when she and Jaskier were captured behind the inn in Temeria; it was stored safely in her saddlebags upstairs. She won’t make that same mistake twice.

She brings the xenovox to her lips and says, “Tissaia? We need help.”

There’s no answer. The metal of the xenovox remains cold.

“Did it work?” Dara’s voice is a hoarse whisper.

Behind Yennefer, Geralt douses the campfire, plunging the clearing into darkness.

“I don’t know,” Yennefer says. “The magic only works one way. Tissaia can hear me, but I can’t hear her.”

Unless Tissaia left the xenovox in her room when she went to supper, or is already asleep, or...

“Tissaia,” Yennefer says again. She can hear the desperation in her voice this time. The hoofbeats are getting close enough that she can hear them. “We need help. We’re in Kaedwen. Come quickly.”

The five of them huddle in a circle back-to-back, weapons drawn. Yennefer keeps murmuring to the xenovox. She hates that calling for help is the best thing she can do for them, when she should be able to _do something._ Jaskier is standing on one side of her, his shoulder pressed against hers, and she can feel every shaky breath he takes. On her other side is Ciri, sword at the ready and body braced for battle. Dara and Geralt are both behind her, Dara's breathing ragged and Geralt standing very still.

Heavily armed men on horseback surge out of the darkness on all sides, surrounding them. Several of them are carrying lanterns, flooding the little clearing with light. There are at least twenty of them, far too many for a casual group of bandits. This might as well be an army. Even though they aren’t wearing uniforms, their bearing is military and they move with the precision of soldiers who have done this many times before.

“Surrender the princess.” Her heart sinks at the sound of the Nilfgaardian accent. What the fuck are Nilfgaardian soldiers doing this far north? “Cooperate, and we’ll make the rest of your deaths painless.”

Geralt makes a low growling noise in his chest. He stands no chance against over twenty men, especially not with a bard, a sorceress with no powers, and two children at his back and he must know that.

“Princess?” Jaskier sounds befuddled. “My good man, you must be mistaken. These are my nephews—”

There are suddenly two crossbows pointed directly at Jaskier’s head. The bard stops talking abruptly.

“Weapons down,” the leader of the Nilfgaardians says.

None of them move.

“Down, or they shoot.”

“What does it matter?” Ciri demands. “You’re going to kill us all anyway.”

The leader turns to her with a smile that may be meant to be kindly, but looks like a grimace. “Not you, little princess. You’ll come with us. The Emperor himself requests your presence at his court. Wouldn’t that be nicer than sleeping in the woods and consorting with degenerates like these?”

Ciri lifts her chin. “Fuck your emperor and fuck his court. I won’t come.”

“I’m afraid you don’t have another choice.” The soldier gestures to two of his men, who both dismount their horses and start towards Ciri.

“That was a mistake,” Jaskier murmurs as Geralt explodes into action. He casts Igni at the two archers with their crossbows pointed at Jaskier, driving both of the men back. A crossbow bolt goes flying through the air, hitting another one of the soldiers, who falls off his horse soundlessly. Ciri lets out a short, sharp shriek that sends both the men advancing on her to their knees, covering their ears. Yennefer has a brief moment to be proud of how far she’s come before more soldiers converge on them.

Yennefer is decent with a blade, but there are too many of them and as two men rush at her, she knows she’s not going to win this fight. Geralt is cutting through the soldiers with ruthless efficiency, but he won’t get through all of them in time to protect her, Jaskier, Ciri, and Dara. Ciri shrieks again and Yennefer feels the girl’s chaos brush her. Something sparks within her and she throws her hands up. The soldier who was about to run her through goes down in a crumpled heap. Yennefer turns on the second man. Whatever brief surge of magic Ciri’s chaos stirred up is gone.

The soldier seizes Yennefer by the hair and hurls her to the ground. She hits the dirt and rolls to avoid the arc of his sword as it swings towards her.

“Yenn!” Jaskier is there, throwing himself between her and her assailant without a second thought. Her heart leaps into her throat as he barely manages to parry the Nilfgaardian’s strike. Palming her knife, Yennefer rises to her knees and thrusts her blade upwards, sinking it into the man’s belly. He falls with a cry, clutching his stomach. A stomach wound is a messy way to die, so she slits his throat.

“Yenn.” Jaskier reaches down to help her to her feet. “Are you—”

“Not the time, bardling.” She yanks him out of the way of an arrow whistling through the air. Several soldiers are circling Ciri and Dara, clearly wary of approaching Ciri too closely. The two children stand back to back, Dara with his knife and Ciri with a sword, but they’ll be outmatched as soon as the soldiers attack. Geralt is holding off six attackers on his own, just barely managing to keep himself alive.

Despair fills Yennefer. They’re not going to survive this. Ciri, maybe. But the rest of them don’t stand a chance.

And then, to her right, there’s a scream. She turns to see two soldiers falling from their horses, heads severed from their bodies. A portal vanishes in the air behind them.

“Friend of yours?” Jaskier asks.

“Let’s hope.” One of the soldiers circling the children reaches for Dara. Yennefer lunges towards the man, who doesn’t see her coming. As she dispatches him with a blade to the side of his neck, there’s more screaming behind her and every one of the lanterns in the clearing goes out, plunging them all into darkness. Yennefer looks around wildly, but all she can make out are figures moving around her.

“What’s going on?” Dara asks in a hoarse whisper and Yennefer reaches out to pull him and Ciri towards her, keeping an arm around each of them. She can feel Jaskier at her back, probably as confused as she is. Around them, people are still screaming, horses are whinnying, and boots are pounding in the dirt, but she can’t fucking see anything.

She can see the outline of someone running towards them. Ciri takes a deep breath, body tensing in preparation for a scream, but Yennefer slaps her hand over her mouth. Whoever the newcomer is, they don’t need to know about Ciri’s powers. She pivots, dragging Ciri and Dara with her, so that she’s between the children and their attacker.

Behind her, there’s a meaty _thwack_ , a shriek, and silence.

Nobody speaks or moves. Everything around them is quiet.

And then the campfire explodes into light, crackling merrily and illuminating the whole clearing. Yennefer just manages not to flinch, but Jaskier yelps and stumbles away.

“What the fuck?” Jaskier whispers.

Yennefer turns to see the man standing on the other side of the campfire, eyes going wide when she sees who it is. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Nice to see you too, Yennefer,” Vilgefortz says with an easy smile.

***


	9. a bard's bread and butter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Geralt crosses his arms over his chest and faces the other man. “You can come with us to Ard Carraigh.”  
>  “I’m honored.” Vilgefortz’s lips curl into a wry smile.  
> “We’re not sure what else we’re going to face on the road,” Geralt says.  
> “More attempted kidnappings or assassinations, I imagine. The people after Yennefer seem relentless.”  
> Geralt nods. “Yennefer, Jaskier, and the boys are my responsibility.”  
> “Of course they are.”  
> Geralt meets the mage’s eyes levelly. “I won’t allow anything to threaten them while they’re under my protection.”_

“Nice to see you too, Yennefer.” Their savior— or their new enemy, Jaskier isn’t sure yet— is a tall, absurdly good-looking man wearing a loose-fitting, richly made green outfit and a sword on his hip. He has a lovely, almost musical voice, and Jaskier finds himself wondering absently, in his hazy post-battle shock, if the man sings. The man is smiling warmly at Yennefer, who returns the expression with a stony look of her own.

“What are you doing here?” Yennefer asks again.

Geralt comes to stand next to her. With his face splattered in blood, a sword in each hand, and his mouth twisted into a snarl that shows off his too-sharp teeth, he looks terrifying (and also devastatingly sexy, but now isn’t the time for that line of thought.) “She asked you a question,” he growls.

The man doesn’t look even a little bit concerned. “Ah, you must be the witcher I’ve heard so much about. Vilgefortz of Roggeveen, at your service.”

Geralt doesn’t move.

“And to answer your question.” Vilgefortz turns back to Yennefer. “I received your distress call and came to your aid.”

“The distress call I sent to Tissaia, not to you,” she says.

“Aren’t we all on the same time, Yenna?”

“I haven’t decided yet.” Yennefer takes a step towards him and for a moment, Jaskier forgets that her chaos is gone, because she looks ready to burn someone alive. “Where is Tissaia?”

Vilgefortz grimaces. “There was an… incident on the Isle of Thanned. A group of Nilfgaardian mages attacked. Tissaia was injured defending the isle.”

Yennefer flinches. “Is she alright?”

“She’ll live, but she will be out of commission for a time,” Vilgefortz says. “She entrusted me with her xenovox in case you needed assistance. And it’s a good thing she did.” He pointedly looks around at the soldiers’ bodies scattered across the ground.

“Well, thank you,” Jaskier says, because some healthy suspicion is all well and good, but they don’t have to be _boorish_ about it. “We were utterly fucked before you showed up.”

Vilgefortz flashes him a smile. “Tissie is very dear to me and Yenna is one of her favorite former pupils. I couldn’t let anything happen to her.”

Having met Tissaia de Vries once, Jaskier cannot imagine anyone having the balls to refer to her as _Tissie._ That alone makes him grudgingly respect the man. “Julian Alfred Pankratz,” he says. “You can call me Jaskier.”

“A pleasure, Jaskier.” Vilgefortz nods.

“Why would Tissaia entrust the xenovox with you?” Yennefer demands.

“Well, I suppose she trusts me. I’m surprised you don’t trust me as well, Yenna, since we fought side by side at Sodden Hill.”

“I don’t know you well enough to trust you.”

“But you trust Tissaia, do you not?”

“Of course I do. But she’s not here.”

Vilgefortz sighs. “If I wanted you hurt, all I had to do was not intervene and allow the Nilfgaardians to do what they came here to do. I see you haven’t regained control of your chaos.”

“I’ve never known Tissaia to have loose lips,” Yennefer says.

“Surely you understand that she had to give me a rundown of the situation so I would know what I was walking into.”

“And what did she tell you?”

“That you’re traveling with the witcher, Geralt of Rivia, to evade the Nilfgaardian agents who want to kill you or take you captive after Sodden Hill. That you couldn’t access your chaos after the battle and wouldn’t be able to defend yourself if attacked.” 

Yennefer says nothing in reply.

Vilgefortz’s gaze turns to Ciri and Dara, who are hanging back. In that overly jovial tone that adults sometimes use when they really don’t know how to speak to children, he asks, “And who are these two?” 

“Fion and Dara.” Geralt steps sideways, blocking them from view. “Refugees from Cintra who are traveling with us to stay with relatives in Kaedwen.”

If Vilgefortz suspects for a moment that the boy called Fion is actually the lost princess of Cintra, nothing in his expression gives it away. “A pleasure to meet both of you. Where in Kaedwen are you traveling?”

“Ard Carraigh,” Geralt says, still eyeing the sorcerer dubiously. “Going to spend the winter there after we drop the boys off.”

“Of course.” From the wry way Vilgefortz’s lips twist, Jaskier guesses that he knows that part of that is bullshit, but isn’t going to challenge Geralt about it. “Well, we’re what, four days’ ride from Ard Carraigh? I’d be happy to accompany you the rest of the way, make sure that there are no more unfortunate incidents.”

Jaskier watches as Yennefer’s gaze meets Geralt’s. They seem to share an unspoken understanding. “That’s not necessary,” Yennefer says.

Vilgefortz cocks his head to his side. “Then what will you do next time something like this happens?”

“It won’t,” Geralt growls.

“I appreciate your optimism, but surely you don’t believe you can protect them from the entirety of Nilfgaard.” Vilgefortz sighs. “I know that your final destination is a secret. I have no interest in deducing the location of your witcher stronghold. But at least allow me to accompany you to Ard Carraigh. Tissaia would never forgive me if I let something happen to you.”

Geralt eyes him doubtfully. “I’m sure Tissaia would understand if you stayed out of business that had nothing to do with you.”

Vilgefortz’s pleasant demeanor slips, just a bit. “Had I stayed out of business that had nothing to do with me, you and your charges would be dead, witcher.”

Geralt’s hands ball into fists at his side.

Sensing that this is about to turn ugly, Jaskier places a hand on his lover’s arm. He feels Geralt relax minutely under his touch. “Maybe we should take a break to clean up the corpses all over the place. Then we can discuss it.”

“Hm.” Geralt jerks his head in an abrupt nod and stalks away.

***

“Can we trust Vilgefortz?” Geralt asks Yennefer as soon as he gets her alone, while they’re cleaning up the bodies scattered over the clearing.

She looks up from the body she’s dragging away. “I told you, I don’t know him well.”

“What do you know about him?”

“He used to be a druid before he became a mage. He fancies himself a soldier.”

“A druid and a soldier. Don’t see many of those.”

“He’s the one who led us at Sodden Hill,” Yennefer says. “He’s a war hero, some would say.”

“And what would you say?”

“I’d say that he seems extremely full of himself, but he’s never done anything to make me outright distrust him. And it does seem unlikely that he’s working for Nilfgaard, not when he’s part of the reason they didn’t take Sodden.”

“Think we can trust him to accompany us to Ard Carraigh?” Seeing that she’s struggling, Geralt takes over dragging the body to the shallow grave where several other Nilfgaardian soldiers are already resting. With a flick of his wrist, he casts Igni, setting the pile alight.

Yennefer turns away from the grisly sight, grimacing with distaste. “I think he’s right. If he hadn’t been there, this would have turned into a massacre. He’s a soldier and a mage. We could use him.”

Across the clearing, Vilgefortz is chatting amiably with Jaskier. Geralt watches his every move, ready to be between them in an instant if the mage looks like he means harm.

“I’m going to be honest, Geralt,” Yennefer says. “I think if we keep trying to go at this alone, we’re not going to make it to Kaer Morhen. There have been too many close calls already. The bandits, the Temerian soldiers, the people who burned down that barn, and now this? We’ve gotten lucky over and over again. We can’t expect to keep getting lucky.”

“So you think we should let him go with us to Ard Carraigh?”

“I don’t like it either.” She’s watching Vilgefortz talk with Jaskier as well, her hands flexing unconsciously. “I don’t like the possibility of another person learning Ciri’s secret. But if we have to choose between traveling with Vilgefortz and being ambushed by more Nilfgaardian soldiers, the choice is obvious.”

It doesn’t seem obvious to Geralt, but he sees her point. They have limited choices right now, and he needs to keep Jaskier, Yennefer, Ciri, and Dara safe.

He crosses the clearing to Vilgefortz and Jaskier and asks the mage, “Can I talk to you?”

Vilgefortz raises a perfectly arched brow at him. “Of course.”

Jaskier looks at them questioningly, but Geralt wants this conversation to be just between him and Vilgefortz. He shakes his head at Jaskier, then leads the mage to the other side of the clearing.

“You know, I could take care of all these bodies with a little magic,” Vilgefortz says cheerfully. “No need for the mass burials.”

“Cleaning up bodies is part of making them.” Geralt crosses his arms over his chest and faces the other man. “You can come with us to Ard Carraigh.”

“I’m honored.” Vilgefortz’s lips curl into a wry smile. 

“We’re not sure what else we’re going to face on the road,” Geralt says.

“More attempted kidnappings or assassinations, I imagine. The people after Yennefer seem relentless.”

Geralt nods. “Yennefer, Jaskier, and the boys are my responsibility.”

“Of course they are.”

Geralt meets the mage’s eyes levelly. “I won’t allow anything to threaten them while they’re under my protection.”

“Very noble of you. But from what I can tell, they’ve been under constant threat while they’re under your protection.”

Geralt’s hands ball into fists.

“No matter.” Vilgefortz claps him on the shoulder. “I’m here to help, my friend. I’ll get you safely to Ard Carraigh. We could portal—”

“No portals,” Geralt growls. He’ll allow Vilgefortz to accompany them, but the thought of putting them all completely under the mage’s power like that chills him to the bone. Vilgefortz could drop them into the middle of the sea or send them all to different corners of the Continent. No, the risk isn’t worth the days of travel time they would save.

“It would make the journey shorter.”

“No fucking portals.”

Vilgefortz puts his hands up in a show of surrender. “Fine. If that’s what you prefer, I’ll defer to you. I’m sure you know what’s best, what with all the battle strategy I'm sure you've learned hunting drowners in swamps.”

Geralt bares his teeth into an unpleasant smile. “I may not be a soldier, but I still know how to deal with someone who threatens the people I care about.” Too late, he realizes his mistake. He made it sound too personal.

“Well, luckily for me, I’m no threat to you and yours. Tissaia sent me here to protect Yennefer, and I’ll extend that same protection to Jaskier and the little ones. And to you as well, though I’d hate to presume that I could offer protection to the fearsome Butcher of Blaviken.”

Geralt does not punch him, no matter how appealing the thought may be. Instead, he turns on his heel and goes to finish cleaning up the bodies.

***

When they leave their campsite the next morning, the smell of smoke and burnt flesh still lingers in the air from the night before, reminding Yennefer too much of Sodden Hill. She’s glad to move on, leaving behind the place where they almost died. She keeps an eye on Vilgefortz as they pack up camp, very aware of his proximity to Ciri and Dara at all times. Both children stay out of arm’s reach of him at Geralt’s request.

“You could be more subtle about watching every move he makes,” Jaskier tells her in an undertone as they saddle up the horses.

“And why would I do that?” Yennefer mutters. “I don’t trust him.”

“He saved our lives last night.”

“He did. And I’ll be more thankful once I know what he wants from us.”

He cocks an eyebrow. “Sometimes people do things out of the goodness of their hearts, Yennefer.”

“Brotherhood mages don’t typically do things out of kindness. They put ambition and power above all else. If he’s here, it’s because he wants something.”

“To get in Tissie’s good graces, it sounds like.”

“I’ll tell Tissaia you called her that.”

“Oh gods, please don’t. I like all my innards exactly where they are.” Jaskier grins at her and for a moment, it’s like the past few days never happened and things are still easy between them. But then he seems to catch himself and his face shutters. “Why are you here, Yennefer? If Brotherhood mages always want something.”

Yennefer has to stop herself from squirming under his scrutiny. “I’m not a Brotherhood mage anymore. I’m hardly a mage at all right now.”

He doesn’t answer, just keeps watching her with that odd expression on his face. It annoys her.

“I’m here because Kaer Morhen is a safe place for me for the winter, bardling,” she snaps. “Just like the rest of us.”

“Of course,” Jaskier says and turns away.

He’s scrupulously polite to her for the rest of the day as they make their way towards Ard Carraigh. Too polite. There’s no joking or laughing. He doesn’t tease her or touch her or call her “Yenn.” Instead, he spends most of the day in a spirited discussion with Vilgefortz about music and philosophy. It shouldn’t bother Yennefer so much to see him so much more at ease with a strange mage whose intentions they don’t know than with her, but it rankles every time Jaskier laughs easily at one of Vilgefortz’s jokes.

It’s a long day and by the end of it, Yennefer’s teeth are on edge and there’s a sour feeling in the pit of her belly. So when she approaches Jaskier while he’s unpacking his saddlebags, her words come out more harshly than she intends. “You need to keep your guard up.”

He raises an eyebrow at her. “I don’t know what you mean, Yennefer.”

“I mean.” Yennefer glances over to make sure that Vilgefortz is too busy holding a one-sided conversation with Geralt to be listening. “We don’t know if we can trust him yet.”

“I’m well aware, thank you.”

“Then why are you acting like the two of you are boyhood best friends?”

“It’s called being polite. Pleasant, even. The man saved our lives last night. Unless evidence comes to light that he’s up to something, I’m not going to give him the cold shoulder.”

Yennefer cannot argue with that logic, which is fucking infuriating. “As long as you take a moment to remember that he _could_ be up to something in the middle of all that fawning.”

Jaskier scoffs. “I’m not actually an idiot, Yennefer, as shocking as that may be to you.”

She knows she deserves that, but she still can’t help but bristle. “This has nothing to do with that.”

“Doesn’t it?” His voice drops. “You forget that I lived at the Cintran court for a year. Calanthe had no problem with her nobles literally stabbing each other in the back. I got very good at smiling and making nice with people who might want to kill me.”

“Jaskier—”

“I know I’m just a bard, Yennefer, but for fuck’s sake, have some faith in me.”

“Is that what this is? You’re going to cozy up to a man we can’t trust because you’re angry with me?” Yennefer realizes her voice has gotten too loud when Ciri and Dara both glance over at them.

“No,” Jaskier says, voice suddenly stiff and formal. “That’s not what this is at all.”

Yennefer doesn’t know how this conversation spun so thoroughly out of her control. “Look at this from Vilgefortz’s perspective. He has to know that the easiest way to get to me or to Geralt is to make friends with you.”

“Why, because I’m the weak link?”

Yennefer wants to shake him, because how can he not see that there’s nothing Geralt wouldn’t do to keep him safe? That there’s nothing _she_ wouldn’t do to keep him safe?

Jaskier takes her silence as agreement, because he just shakes his head and says, “That’s what I thought.” Then he walks away, leaving her staring after him.

***

Having a mage around makes everything easier and Jaskier can feel any suspicion he’s feeling towards Vilgefortz vanish as they man conjures campfires with a flick of his fingers, uses magic to lure three fat rabbits into a snare, and puts a cloaking spell around their campsite so they don’t have to worry about being discovered. Geralt grumbles a little because the cloaking spell makes it so that his medallion vibrates sporadically in warning, but even he seems willing to admit that having Vilgefortz around is useful.

And Vilgefortz— who has traveled the Continent ten times over, is fluent in languages that Jaskier didn’t even know existed, and loves music and literature as much as Jaskier does— is a pleasant distraction. Every time Jaskier finds his thoughts wandering to Yennefer, he turns to Vilgefortz and brings up a new topic of conversation. Vilgefortz seems able to talk endlessly about any subject Jaskier can think to discuss, which Jaskier appreciates. He needs the distraction.

Jaskier takes first shift that night and sits at the edge of the camp, plucking out a sad song on his lute. He doesn’t have words to go with the tune yet, but he already knows it’s going to be a ballad about the heartbreak of falling in love with someone while knowing from the start that the love will never be requited.

It won’t be based on personal experience, of course.

“You’re quite the artist.”

Jaskier startles at Vilgefortz’s approach. “Sorry, did I wake you?”

Yennefer, Geralt, Ciri, and Dara are all fast asleep on their bedrolls.

“Not at all.” Vilgefortz settles down next to Jaskier. “That’s a lovely song. What’s it about?”

“What else? Lost love, heartbreak. A bard’s bread and butter.”

“It can’t be about the witcher. The two of you seem quite happy.”

Jaskier opens his mouth, then closes it, surprised. He’s not sure how Vilgefortz realized that he and Geralt are lovers; they’ve been trying to be subtle about that fact while in mixed company.

“Relax, Jaskier.” Vilgefortz claps him on the back. “I’m glad to hear that the rumors about witchers being emotionless are untrue.”

Jaskier’s eyes flicker to Geralt. His lover looks deeply asleep for the first time since they left the Temple of Melitele. “Those rumors are absolute bullshit.”

“As most rumors about non-humans are,” Vilgefortz says. “So, then who’s inspiring these mournful love songs?”

Unwillingly, Jaskier finds his gaze traveling to Yennefer. She’s asleep between Geralt and Ciri, her dark hair fanned out on the ground around her as she mutters in her sleep. He looks away quickly, but Vilgefortz notices.

“Ah,” Vilgefortz says. “Well, that explains the sad songs.”

Jaskier can feel his face heating with embarrassment. “It’s nothing.”

“It doesn’t seem like nothing.”

Jaskier hesitates. He has no one else he can talk to about this, and he’s about to face an entire winter in Kaer Morhen with no one he'll be able to confide in. Vilgefortz seems, if not entirely trustworthy, then at least friendly enough to listen without judgment. “Falling in love with Geralt was the easiest thing I’ve ever done, because how could anyone not love him? He was kind and he was brave and he kept saving my life. I love him so much that I feel like I may burst with it sometimes.”

He breaks off, checking to make sure the others are still asleep. Vilgefortz stays silent, waiting for him to continue.

“And then I got to know Yennefer and it wasn’t easy at all,” Jaskier says. “She hated me at first. I don’t even think she knew my name for the first week or so. And then I got to know her and she’s wonderful and willing to do anything to protect the people she cares about and yes, completely terrifying, but in a good way and I…”

“And you fell in love with her too,” Vilgefortz says quietly.

“Yes.” It’s the first time Jaskier has really let himself think it. But he’s in love with Yennefer, just as madly and as deeply as with Geralt. He can’t keep pretending that it’s just a silly infatuation. “But it doesn’t matter, because she doesn’t love me. She thinks I’m an ‘idiot peacock of a bard.’ And I’m happy with Geralt. I don’t need anyone else. I just thought there was a chance for a few days there, but I was wrong.”

“I wouldn’t give up hope quite yet, Jaskier,” Vilgefortz says. “I don’t know Yennefer well, but it doesn’t seem like she trusts easily. But she seems to trust you without hesitation.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“I do. She lets her guard down around you. She looks at you the same way you look at her. It’s clear that she cares for you deeply.”

“Glad it’s clear to one of us,” Jaskier grumbles, knowing he sounds surly, but not particularly caring. “Because I don’t think she even considers me a friend.”

“I think the two of you just need to have a talk.” Vilgefortz reaches out to cup the back of Jaskier’s head in his hand in an uncomfortably intimate gesture.

Jaskier looks over at him with a frown. Did Vilgefortz mistake Jaskier’s friendliness for interest? Or perhaps he thinks because Jaskier is in love with two people, that means he’s willing to add a third to the rotation, as if things aren’t already complicated enough? He’s about to gently let the mage down, but Vilgefortz cuts him off.

“That’s exactly what you need to do, I think,” Vilgefortz says with a smile. “Tomorrow night after we’ve settled down to make camp, you should ask her if the two of you can talk alone. Make puppy dog eyes at her and she’ll follow you into the woods willingly, I imagine. Do you have a weapon?”

Jaskier’s head is hurting. He blinks, unsure of what having a weapon has to do with him talking to Yennefer. He remembers the little knife he purchased when he left Oxenfurt a lifetime ago.

“Good,” Vilgefortz says and it’s only then that Jaskier realizes that the other man’s lips aren’t moving. Instead, his words are a whisper in Jaskier’s mind. “Then once you have her alone, you’re going to kill her.”

Jaskier looks at him with wide eyes. He wants to shout for Geralt, but his mouth doesn’t seem to be working. All he can think is: _why?_

“Because there will be screaming and blood and your mutant will go running to see what’s happened to you,” Vilgefortz says. “And while he’s busy valiantly coming to your rescue, I’ll take Princess Cirilla— oh, I’m sorry, _Fion_ — and portal away.”

Jaskier can feel shocked tears prickling in his eyes. He’s never been so aware of his own helplessness, of his own uselessness.

“Don’t look at me like that.” Vilgefortz’s voice makes the inside of Jaskier’s skull feel oily. “My original thought was to have you kill the witcher, but I decided that a soft, untrained thing like you wouldn’t stand a chance of actually hurting him, no matter how far gone the beast is over you.”

Jaskier manages to make a tiny hiccuping noise. On the other side of the clearing, Geralt stirs.

_Please wake up,_ Jaskier silently calls to him. _Please smell how scared I am._

“If he does wake up, all he’s going to see is the two of us sitting companionably in silence together. And he won’t smell anything amiss. I know how witchers work. I took precautions.”

 _Please,_ Jaskier thinks. He would rather take his own life than Yennefer’s. Let that be the distraction. But not Yennefer.

“You really would, wouldn’t you?” Vilgefortz looks at him curiously. “What a rosy view you have of her. Everything she has, she got because she tricked and betrayed more powerful, worthier mages. Yennefer of Vengerberg is nothing. The world won’t miss her when she’s gone."

Jaskier makes a wounded noise.

“I am sorry to use you this way, for what it’s worth. You’re a charming, bright young man. In another life, maybe we would have been friends."

_Fuck you._

Vilgefortz smiles indulgently. Aloud, he says in a jovial tone, “Look at you, Jaskier, falling asleep on your feet. Why don’t you let me take over watch for a bit?”

Jaskier blinks at him. His thoughts are muzzy and unfocused and for the life of him, he has no clue what they were just talking about. “Did I…”

“Drifted off mid-sentence, my friend.” Vilgefortz’s forehead crinkles with concern. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah.” Jaskier’s heart is racing and his palms are clammy and he doesn’t know why. “I think I must have had a weird dream.”

“You’ve had a trying few weeks.” Vilgefortz nods to the others. “Go rest. I’ll keep an eye out."

Jaskier knows that Geralt didn’t want the mage on watch alone, but he can’t think of why right now. He can’t think of much. Still in a daze, he says goodnight to Vilgefortz and goes to crawl next to Geralt on the bedroll, looking up at the sky. The cloaking spell surrounding their campsite makes the stars above them look fuzzy.

Curling up next to Geralt, he falls into an uneasy sleep.

***

When Jaskier wakes the next morning, it’s to a pounding head and Geralt’s face above his, face tense with anger and annoyance. “You never woke me up to relieve you.”

“Huh?”

“Last night. You took the first watch. You were supposed to wake me when you were done.”

Jaskier looks around. Yennefer and the children are still asleep, while Vilgefortz is already up and about.

“What happened?” Geralt’s voice is a growl. This is the most irritation Jaskier has seen directed at himself since they first started traveling together.

Jaskier only shakes his head. “I don’t know, I’m sorry. I don’t even remember coming to bed.”

He remembers very little about last night. He thinks he talked to Vilgefortz about Yennefer, and then he must have drifted off, because he remembers nothing after that.

“You said you weren’t that tired,” Geralt says.

“I didn’t think I was!”

“Jaskier was dozing off mid-conversation, so I sent him to bed.” Vilgefortz comes striding over, smiling warmly. “You all seemed like you could use the good night’s sleep, so I took watch all night. No need for concern, Geralt, I got used to nights of little sleep on the front lines. How are you feeling, Jaskier?”

“Fine,” Jaskier says, though he feels nowhere close to fine. His head is killing him and Geralt is angry with him. He doesn’t know which is worse.

“Hm.” Geralt grimaces as his medallion vibrates. “We should head out soon. I’ll ready the horses.”

As he stalks away, Vilgefortz watches him go with a raised eyebrow. “What are the chances he’ll warm up to me by the time we reach Ard Carraigh?”

Jaskier manages a ghost of a smile. “I wouldn’t hold out hope.”

“Ah, well, then.” Vilgefortz holds out a hand to help Jaskier to his feet.

Jaskier goes to wake Ciri, Dara, and Yennefer and then starts helping Geralt ready the horses. He had one job the night before and he failed miserably. The least he can do now is be helpful.

“What’s wrong?” Geralt asks.

Jaskier looks at him from over Pegasus’s back. “What?”

“You smell strange.”

“Well, Geralt, we’ve been on the road for several days without baths.”

“No, not like that.” Geralt frowns at him. “I don’t mind your natural scent. But you smell wrong.”

Wonderful, just what Jaskier needed after learning that Yennefer holds him in complete contempt: his lover telling him that he smells “wrong.” “I don’t know. I have a headache. Could that be it?”

“Hm. You’re not getting sick, are you?”

“I don’t know, but if I am, I’m sure you can find a convenient village to leave me in.” Jaskier’s words come out with more venom than he intends.

Geralt’s eyes go wide. “I wouldn’t leave you.”

“I know.” Jaskier sighs and closes his eyes. “I’m fine. I’ll just be glad when we get where we’re going.”

“We all will be.”

Jaskier’s headache persists all day, causing his temples to throb. Something is wrong, he knows in the pit of his stomach. He can feel the knot of anxiety inside him growing the longer the day drags on. But every time he tries to verbalize his worries to Geralt or Yennefer, his thoughts grow fuzzy and he seems to lose the ability to form coherent speech.

When Geralt announces that it’s time for them to make camp for the night, Jaskier can feel his hands begin to shake.

“Jaskier, are you okay?” It’s Dara, his voice sounding very far away, even though they’re standing right next to each other.

Jaskier finds himself smiling brightly at the boy, his facial muscles taking on a life of their own. “Everything’s fine. I’m just bone tired.”

_Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong._

“You’ve been quiet all day,” Ciri tells him and Jaskier supposes that she must be right. He can’t remember most of their journey today.

They find a likely-looking spot right next to a creek to stop for the night. Jaskier must help set up camp. He must lay out the bedrolls and fetch some water from the creek to boil and help set snares, but it’s all a blur, with Jaskier an unwitting passenger in his own body. The next thing he knows, he’s standing with his saddlebags in his hands. He watches as if from above his body as he pulls his knife out of his saddlebag and slips it into the pocket on the inside of his doublet.

_No, I don’t want to do this. No, no, no._

Ciri and Dara are laughing as they sit by the fire, trying to toast the last of the bread they took from the Temple of Melitele. The smell of burnt bread fills the air. Yennefer reprimands them, telling them not to waste food, but she sounds more fond than stern.

Yennefer. The sound of her voice makes the knot of anxiety turn into outright terror.

For an instant, he remembers. Vilgefortz’s smile, the hand on the back of his head, the coaxing voice whispering in his brain. He wants to shout, but he can’t. Hands shaking, he gropes in his saddlebag until he finds the vial of poison. He just manages to slip it into his pocket before the numb detachment takes over again and he finds himself staring blankly down at the saddlebag, with no idea what he needed from it. He tosses it to the ground.

Jaskier's feet carry him across the clearing, past Geralt and Vilgefortz. Geralt doesn’t look up from sharpening his sword, but Vilgefortz offers him a friendly smile that doesn’t quite meet his eyes. Jaskier shudders.

 _Wrong, wrong, wrong,_ he thinks in time to his footsteps as he walks towards Yennefer, Ciri, and Dara. He can feel the weight of something tucked into the inside of his doublet. It feels unbearably heavy.

Yennefer looks up at Jaskier as he approaches, violet eyes guarded.

Jaskier wants to tell her to get far away from him. His hands are no longer shaking, but his palms are clammy and the inside of his mouth is dry.

Can we talk?” he hears his own voice say.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! We're almost to the end!


	10. the best thing a flower can do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I love you.”  
>  Yennefer freezes.  
> “I’m in love with you,” he continues. “It’s okay if you don’t feel the same way. I understand. But I need you to know how important you are to me.”  
> Yennefer can’t look at him. She can feel her heart racing in her throat. “But Geralt—”  
> “I love Geralt too. The two of you have my entire heart.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again to all of those of you who have left comments and kudos so far. I appreciate all of you!
> 
> Content warning relating to the poison from Cintra in end notes.

Jaskier looks nervous. His eyes are wide and there’s a sheen of sweat on his brow as he looks down at Yennefer. The sight of the uncertainty on his face makes something twist inside her.

“Can we talk?” he asks in a shaky voice.

Yennefer takes a deep breath. She and Jaskier need to have a conversation, she knows, but part of her wants to push it back as long as possible. She doesn’t know what to say to him. “I don’t think now is the time, Jaskier.”

“Please?”

“We’ll be fine, Yennefer,” Ciri says confidently. “We won’t burn the bread.”

Yennefer doesn’t believe that for a moment, but she also can’t bring herself to say no to Jaskier when he’s looking at her with those wide, anxious eyes. If nothing else, she owes him an apology. Rising to her feet, she brushes her skirts off.

“That bread had better be edible when I get back,” she tells Ciri and Dara, which earns her two smiles of perfect innocence.

Jaskier heads towards the woods surrounding the camp, walking stiffly, and Yennefer follows him.

“Stay inside the shield,” Geralt calls after them.

“Don’t worry, we won’t go far.” Yennefer follows Jaskier right to the edge of the shield, just out of sight of the others. “What’s this about, Jaskier?”

Jaskier turns to her. “Things have been off between us lately. I wanted to clear the air.”

Yennefer waits as he visibly gathers his thoughts. She’s never seen him looking this discomposed before, like he has no idea what to say next. It would be charming, if she didn’t feel so guilty about it.

“I don’t want things to continue like this between us all winter.” When he meets her eyes, she’s surprised to see genuine anguish there. “I can’t keep not talking to you, Yenn.”

Fuck. Yennefer wants to reach out to him, but she forces herself to remain still. “I apologize. I shouldn’t have spoken about you like that. What I said isn’t true.”

“Isn’t it?”

“No,” she says. “You are many things, but an idiot isn’t one of them. More importantly, you aren’t someone I ever want to hurt.”

“I don’t want to hurt you either.” His voice is barely a whisper.

The sheer emotion in his voice causes a lump to rise to her throat, but she swallows it back. “Well, then it’s settled,” she says briskly, starting back towards the camp. “We won’t hurt each other. Now, I really should make sure that Ciri and Dara don’t—”

He catches her by the arm, his grip gentle. “I love you.”

Yennefer freezes.

“I’m in love with you,” he continues. “It’s okay if you don’t feel the same way. I understand. But I need you to know how important you are to me.”

Yennefer can’t look at him. She can feel her heart racing in her throat. “But Geralt—”

“I love Geralt too. The two of you have my entire heart.” The words spill out of him in a rush. “You’re incredible. Quite possibly the most incredible person I’ve ever met. You’re terrifying and brilliant and strangely funny, even when it’s at my expense, and you can be so kind, even if you don’t want anyone to know about it. You’re the most gorgeous person I’ve ever met in my life, and somehow that manages to be the least interesting thing about you. You’re also one of the most infuriating people I’ve ever met, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. I adore you, Yennefer. Gods, I can’t even put into words how much I adore you.”

Yennefer turns away. He lets her go, her arm slipping out of his grip. With her back to him, she says, “I’m not some fairytale princess you can put on a pedestal, bardling.”

“I can promise you, I have no interest in fairytale princesses. I just want you and Geralt.” Jaskier is quiet for a moment. “If you don’t feel the same way, I’ll never say another word about this. But I hope we can at least be friends, because I want you in my life always. In whatever way you want to be.”

Yennefer takes a shuddering breath. “And what if I do feel the same way?”

Jaskier moves closer to her. “Then we need to have a conversation with Geralt. And maybe after that conversation, we can be together. All three of us, because I know you two are still in love. I can see it in the way you look at each other.”

And that’s too much, the thought of having both of them. Of being loved by both of them. Yennefer is paralyzed by a mixture of terror and joy.

“But do you feel the same way?” Jaskier’s voice trembles. “I need to hear you say it, or I’m not going to believe it.”

“Yes,” Yennefer starts to say, but she’s cut off by a shout behind her.

“Yennefer, move!” Geralt roars, sounding horrified.

***

Geralt does try not to listen to Jaskier and Yennefer’s conversation. He knows it’s not for his ears, no matter how curious he is. He concentrates on sharpening his silver sword and keeping an eye on Vilgefortz, who is training on the other side of the clearing. The mage has his sword in hand, thrusting and parrying against an invisible opponent. It’s something Geralt has done many times on the road to keep his skills sharp, but something about the self-important way Vilgefortz does it puts his teeth on edge. Perhaps he’s at the point of disliking the other man where everything Vilgefortz does becomes irritating.

His medallion vibrates and Geralt growls under his breath. He knows that the cloaking spell is a necessity— it’s kept them safe for the last two days, after all— but it’s still a pain in the ass to have his medallion constantly warning him about the nearby magic.

He hears his name from behind him and despite himself, he can’t help but pay attention. Jaskier’s voice is soft and shaky as he says, “We can be together. All three of us, because I know you two are still in love. I can see it in the way you look at each other.”

Geralt’s sword stills on the whetstone, mind racing. Long ago, he resigned himself to the fact that what he had with Yennefer was over. He mourned, moved on, and eventually found love again with Jaskier. But if he could have both of them? It’s more than he could possibly hope for.

And then he smells the fear.

Geralt’s body goes rigid, because that isn’t the nervousness of a man confessing his love. That’s the utter terror of someone in mortal peril. But Jaskier is still talking, voice quavering as he asks, “But do you feel the same way? I need to hear you say it, or I’m never going to believe it.”

Realizing it’s not emotion making Jaskier’s voice shake, but terror, Geralt leaps to his feet and rushes towards Yennefer and Jaskier. He finds them standing among the trees. Yennefer has her back to Jaskier, which Jaskier stands behind her with a knife in hand. He has the knife raised, ready to plunge into Yennefer’s back. His hand is trembling. 

“Yennefer, move!” Geralt roars and casts Aard.

The sign hits them both, sending them flying. Jaskier’s knife hits the ground as the bard lands with a cry of pain. Jaskier— but no, this can’t be Jaskier, it must be a doppler, Jaskier wouldn’t do this— looks up at Geralt with wide, horrified eyes that glisten with tears.

“Geralt, what the fuck are you doing?”Yennefer looks between Geralt, Jaskier, and the knife and her eyes go wide.

Geralt stalks towards the imposter, silver sword in hand. “What the fuck did you do to him?” he growls, trying to figure out when Jaskier could have been replaced by a doppler. It must have been when he and Yennefer were captured, which means…

Geralt doesn’t want to think about what that means.

“Where is he?” When the doppler doesn’t answer, Geralt puts his sword to his throat. “Is he alive? Tell me!”

The doppler’s eyes flicker frantically towards the campsite, mouth working. It takes Geralt a moment to realize that he’s mouthing a name.

“What about Ciri?” Geralt demands.

A scream rends the night air.

***

As soon as Yennefer hears Geralt say Ciri’s name, she leaps to her feet. She still has no idea what’s going on, but if Ciri is in danger, that’s all that matters. She sprints back towards the campsite and finds Vilgefortz rounding on Ciri and Dara. Dara is standing between Ciri and Vilgefortz, knife in hand. Vilgefortz has his sword in hand and is twirling it casually as he approaches the children, not bothering to hurry. He must think that Geralt and Yennefer are too distracted to realize what he’s trying to do.

“Dara, get down!” Ciri cries.

The boy doesn’t hesitate, diving to the ground and covering his ears.

Ciri screams and the chaos hits Yennefer like a cannonball to the chest, lifting her into the air. She goes flying backwards, landing against a tree and sliding to the ground. Her entire body vibrates with the aftereffects of the chaos, limbs twitching uncontrollably. The scream dies away and Yennefer looks up to see Vilgefortz kneeling on the ground, a magical shield blocking him from the worst of Ciri’s power.

Yennefer climbs to her feet, chaos surging through her, and fire fills her hands. She almost forgot what it was like to feel this powerful, to know that she can do nearly anything with a twitch of her fingers. She won’t forget again. “Ciri, Dara, run.”

Ciri looks up at her with wide eyes. “But I can’t—”

“I don’t have time to argue with you.” Yennefer doesn’t take her eyes off of Vilgefortz, who is climbing to his feet. “Run and I’ll find you afterwards. I promise.”

Ciri hesitates, but Dara doesn’t. He grabs Ciri by the arm and drags her backwards into the woods. Vilgefortz starts after them and Yennefer sends a wave of chaos at him. He has to turn towards her, away from the children, to block it.

“Yennefer,” he says with his usual charming smile. “You have your chaos back, I see. The girl is more powerful than I realized.”

Yennefer advances on him. “I don’t know what you did to Jaskier, but you’re going to die for it.”

Vilgefortz shrugs. “I used the tools available to me. I never expected you and the witcher to come with such a ready-make weak spot.”

Yennefer hears a growl of rage behind her and looks around to see Geralt heading towards Vilgefortz, death in his eyes and sword in his hand. Her gaze meets Geralt’s and she sees the anguish and the horror there. Vilgefortz is going to die for that too. As one, they turn towards Vilgefortz and attack.

***

As soon as Ciri’s scream goes quiet, Geralt leaps to his feet, abandoning Jaskier, and runs in the direction of the campsite. Jaskier lies on the ground, breathing hard, and reaches up to make certain that his throat remains unslit. He can’t blame Geralt for thinking that Jaskier was a doppler— it wouldn’t be the first time Nilfgaard has sent a doppler after them— but it was still horrifying to have his lover hold a sword to his throat, especially when Jaskier wasn’t able to speak to defend himself.

But for now, his mind is his own. His body is his own. Jaskier turns and starts to crawl away, trying to put as much distance between himself and the others as possible.

And then he feels his limbs lock up.

“No!” Jaskier tries to yell, but his vocal cords are as frozen as the rest of him. Then his entire body jerks and he climbs to his feet. He fights every step as he turns around, bends to pick up his fallen knife, and walks back towards the campsite. He can see exactly what Vilgefortz intends, as clearly as if the mage is whispering into his brain. Jaskier, attacking Geralt with the knife. Geralt cutting him down, thinking he’s a doppler, and being devastated when he realizes that he was wrong. Or worse, Geralt not being willing to fight Jaskier and getting hurt because he won’t raise a sword to his lover.

At the campsite, Jaskier finds Geralt and Yennefer side by side, battling Vilgefortz, Geralt with his sword and Yennefer with magic. Jaskier sees instantly that they’re evenly matched, even though they outnumber Vilgefortz. The mage seems to have no difficulty fighting with magic and his sword simultaneously, moving with deadly grace. Jaskier starts towards the trio, knife in hand.

Geralt catches Vilgefortz in the arm with his sword, causing the mage to cry out. The knife falls out of Jaskier’s hand and he drops to his knees. Hands shaking, he fumbles for the poison in his pocket. He won’t let Vilgefortz use him as a weapon against the people he loves. He won’t let Geralt live with the guilt of having to kill him. It takes him three tries to unstopper the bottle; his fingers are clumsy with fear.

Jaskier doesn’t want to die, he thinks as he watches Geralt and Yennefer fight. He wants to live. He wants more time with this family he’s found. He wants to spend more nights in Geralt’s arms and to see where things would have gone between him and Yennefer. He wants to watch Ciri grow into the powerful leader he knows she’ll be someday. He wants to give Dara the family the boy needs so badly. He wants…

Well, it doesn’t matter what he wants. There’s no time to hesitate; Vilgefortz could take control of him again at any moment.

Putting the bottle to his lips, he closes his eyes.

***

Yennefer’s body is alive with chaos. Even though it’s been a decade since she and Geralt fought side-by-side on the mountaintop, they fall into sync as they battle Vilgefortz. The other mage is as good of a soldier as Yennefer remembers, as handy with a blade as he is with his magic, and he seems unruffled by Geralt and Yennefer’s assault.

“I suppose I shouldn’t have trusted the bard to finish the job, Yennefer,” Vilgefortz says with a sneer. “The boy is truly useless.”

“What did you do to him?” Yennefer demands.

“Merely whispered in his ear. Made some suggestions about having a conversation with you.”

“You took control of his mind.” Yennefer remembers the anxiety on Jaskier’s face, the way his voice shook when he spoke to her. He wasn’t worried about confessing his love to her. Those weren’t even his words.

Vilgefortz’s lips twist into a sneer as he blocks the spell she throws at him. “You should have heard him beg.”

Geralt snarls and lunges, slashing Vilgefortz across the arm. The mage cries out, looking more surprised than pained. He reels backwards, circling Geralt.

“Does that make you angry, witcher?” Vilgefortz asks. “Or are you just angry at yourself because you came so close to killing him? He doesn’t blame you, for what it’s worth.”

Geralt’s expression, normally so stoic even in battle, twists into a mask of rage. He hurls himself at Vilgefortz. Steel clashes as their swords meet. Yennefer looks around to see Jaskier is kneeling on the ground in the middle of the campsite, his knife discarded on the ground in front of him. With a shaking hand, he’s raising the bottle of poison to his lips.

“Sometimes, the best thing a flower can do for us is die,” Tissaia told Yennefer once. It was the cornerstone of the type of magic they learned at Aretuza. Power is sacrifice. Success is pain.

Yennefer knows that’s what Jaskier thinks he’s doing. Sacrificing himself for them. Taking himself out of the playing field so Vilgefortz can’t use him against Geralt, Yennefer, Ciri, and Dara.

But Jaskier is not a flower and Yennefer won’t let him wither in front of her.

She reaches out and takes control of his mouth and his arm, stopping him from parting his lips to swallow the poison or forcing the bottle into his mouth. His eyes snap open, frantic, and his gaze meets hers.

 _“Don’t,”_ she tells him silently, and she pours everything she’s feeling right now— her love for him and her grief over what they could have had and her rage at Vilgefortz— into the thought.

 _“I almost killed you.”_ His answering thought is filled with pain and terror.

_“No, Vilgefortz almost killed me.”_

_“Please, Yenn, he’s still in my mind. I can feel him. I don’t know what he’ll make me do.”_

_“He won’t make you do anything, because I won’t let him._

There’s a grunt of pain and Yennefer turns in time to see Geralt thrown backwards, landing on the ground with a thud. He doesn’t get back up. Yennefer doesn’t have time to go to him before Vilgefortz turns on her. Chaos crackles in the air and Yennefer throws up a shield, holding him back. They stand there facing each other, their magic pressing against each other’s, both searching for a weak spot. Geralt still hasn’t moved. His eyes are closed and Yennefer can’t tell if he’s breathing.

“You fucking bitch,” Vilgefortz hisses. “You have no idea what that girl is. You have no idea what you’re getting in the way of.”

Yennefer should put her all into fighting him. But if she releases her hold on Jaskier, she doesn’t know what the bard will do. She’s not sure what she’s more worried about, Jaskier drinking the poison of his own volition or Vilgefortz regaining control of him. “She’s a twelve year old girl,” she says. “Not a tool for you to hand over to Nilfgaard.”

“Nilfgaard isn’t the only one who wants her,” the mage says. “Whoever has that girl is going to be the most powerful force on the Continent. She’s the key—”

“She’s not a fucking key.”

“Don’t act high and mighty, like you haven’t crawled over the backs of other people to get everything you have.”

Across the clearing, Jaskier lets out a pained cry. She looks over to see his face screwed up in agony, the bottle of poison pressed so hard against his lips that they’re turning white. With horror, she feels Vilgefortz’s slimy presence pressing against her control over Jaskier’s mind, trying to worm his way past the defenses she’s erected.

“You’re still not in total control, Yennefer,” Vilgefortz says with a smug smile. “And you won’t win this. Release your hold on the bard, or we’re going to tear his mind apart.”

“Yennefer!” Jaskier’s cry is muffled, but she can just make out her name.

“Let him go,” she snarls.

“I don’t think so. He’s a tool, just like the girl.”

Jaskier’s shoulders are heaving with desperate gasps and he’s making a thin, pained noise.

“Let him go, Yennefer,” Vilgefortz says. “Look what you’re doing to him. Look how you’re hurting him.”

“Fuck you.”

“But you can’t help it, can you? Pushing away the men who love you, turning your back on the only family you’ve ever had, leaving your friends to wonder if you were dead for decades as you gallivanted across the Continent. You’re as much of a poison as what’s in that bottle.”

***

Everything hurts. Jaskier’s thoughts are a ceaseless wail of agony. He can feel Yennefer in his mind, a safe presence, even as he senses her roiling anger and fear. The scent of lilac and gooseberries fills his nostrils. But then there’s Vilgefortz sliding through Jaskier’s thoughts, hammering at Yennefer’s shields. It feels like Jaskier’s skull is about to split open. He’s trying to scream, but Yennefer is keeping his mouth held shut, stopping him from drinking the potion, and Vilgefortz is forcing his hand to grind the bottle against his mouth, trying to force its way past his closed lips.

 _Please,_ he keeps thinking, and he doesn’t know if he’s begging Vilgefortz to let him live, Yennefer to let him die, or whatever god might be listening to make it stop. Maybe all three.

He can hear Vilgefortz’s vicious, self-satisfied voice taunting Yennefer. “You’re as much of a poison as what’s in that bottle,” he says and Jaskier wants to scream in rage. He can feel blood trickling from his nose and he fears that if this doesn’t stop soon, his head will burst like that soldier Yennefer killed in Temeria.

And then, abruptly, there’s a roar of rage and Vilgefortz’s presence vanishes from his mind, leaving only Yennefer. Jaskier doesn’t know if it’s of his own volition or hers when he stoppers the bottle of poison, pockets it, and slumps forward, pressing his burning face against the cold ground. From across the clearing, there’s shouting. When he looks up, he sees that Geralt is back on his feet. There’s a bloody gash on his forehead and his teeth are bared in rage as he and Vilgefortz battle. Vilgefortz is back to being on the defensive, trying to hold off Yennefer and Geralt at once.

“Jaskier, go!” Geralt shouts and Jaskier knows that his lover wants him to go hide with Ciri and Dara, well out of the range of the battle. But Jaskier doesn’t think he has it in him to stand up, let alone run away. Nor does he think he should be anywhere near Ciri and Dara while Vilgefortz can still take control of his mind.

For a moment, Jaskier thinks the battle is good as won. Geralt and Yennefer have Vilgefortz cornered and the sorcerer’s strength seems to be flagging. They fight side by side like people who know each other inside and out, looking spectacular and terrifying with Yennefer’s flashing eyes and the magic dancing on her palms and Geralt’s bloodied white hair and swinging sword. The sight of them could inspire a ballad, Jaskier finds himself thinking, as he watches Yennefer brace her hand on Geralt’s shoulder to use as an anchor while she summons a spell.

And then Vilgefortz’s presence comes roaring back into Jaskier’s mind like a malevolent tidal wave, momentarily obliterating all thought as Jaskier convulses in pain on the ground. Yennefer gasps and lets go of Geralt as Jaskier’s agony travels through their connection. Geralt looks between her and Jaskier, like he doesn’t know which one of them to rush to. Taking advantage of their distraction, Vilgefortz throws up his hand. The chaos that fills the clearing is enough to make the hairs on Jaskier’s arms stand on end.

Geralt and Yennefer both go still. When he hears Geralt grunt in effort, Jaskier realizes that they’re frozen on the spot, both held in place by Vilgefortz’s magic. Yennefer is stuck hunched over in pain with her arms pulled against her chest. Geralt is turned towards her, his hand outstretched. They would look like statues, if it weren’t for the blood still trickling from the cut on Geralt’s forehead.

“Now, isn’t that better?” Vilgefortz sounds out of breath, which is small comfort when he has all three of them utterly at his mercy. “Jaskier, why don’t you come over here?”

And to his horror, Jaskier’s body obeys, picking up his discarded knife and rising to his feet.

***

Geralt’s medallion vibrates ceaselessly against his chest.

 _“I know,”_ he wants to tell it. _“I know I’m in danger."_

Because neither he nor Yennefer can move, held in place by Vilgefortz’s magic, while Jaskier walks towards them with his knife clutched in his hand and his eyes wide with panic. Geralt can hear his heart beating too fast as he approaches.

“Go on, Jaskier.” Vilgefortz is standing close enough to Geralt that he could reach out and throttle him with ease, if he could just _move._

Jaskier comes to stand next to Vilgefortz, directly in front of Geralt. His hands are shaking; Geralt can tell he’s fighting the sorcerer’s mind control with all his might. There are tears running down his face and Geralt wants nothing more than to tell him that this isn’t his fault, that he’s not the one doing this, but his mouth is as frozen as the rest of him. He tries to convey everything he wants to say with his eyes. Jaskier makes a choked noise.

“None of that.” Vilgefortz’s voice is low and coaxing, like he’s talking to a small child frightened by a bad dream. “You’re just tormenting Geralt at this point. You may as well get it over with.”

The sour scent of Jaskier’s fear and the salt of his tears fills Geralt’s nose as Jaskier steps closer and raises the knife. Geralt doesn’t take his gaze off Jaskier’s blue eyes.

But instead of stabbing Geralt, Jaskier turns and plunges the knife into Vilgefortz. The sorcerer jumps back in time to stop it from being a fatal blow; the blade embeds itself into his shoulder rather than his heart. He shouts in surprise and the hold on Geralt and Yennefer breaks. As Vilgefortz raises a hand, aiming a spell at Jaskier, Geralt tackles the bard to the ground, covering him with his body while flames fill the air above them and Vilgefortz howls in agony.

Geralt glances up at Yennefer to see her violet eyes reflecting the flames pouring from her hands, her teeth bared into a snarl of concentration. Her hair is a mess, there’s blood on her face, and he’s never seen her looking so beautiful in all the years he’s known her. Jaskier makes a soft sound and Geralt looks down to see him staring at Yennefer with the same awe Geralt feels.

And then the flames die away and Yennefer falls to her knees, shuddering with exhaustion. For a moment, the clearing is silent. The hum of Geralt’s medallion breaks the quiet and Geralt turns to see Vilgefortz lift his head. Somehow, the mage is still alive, though bloody, burnt, and broken on the ground. He’s raising a trembling hand, looking at Yennefer with hatred in his bloodshot eyes.

Geralt throws himself forward, placing himself between Yennefer and Vilgefortz. He jerks the knife out of the mage’s shoulder and plunges it into the side of Vilgefortz’s neck. His medallion stills as Vilgefortz gasps and chokes on his own blood, convulsing on the ground. Geralt stays kneeling next to him, hand still gripping the knife buried into Vilgefortz’s neck, as the mage goes still and silent, his eyes staring up at Geralt in surprise.

***

“Yennefer!” Yennefer can barely hear her name being called over the ringing in her ears. She looks up to see Jaskier crawling towards her, his face twisted with anguish. Nearby, Geralt yanks Jaskier’s bloodied knife out of Vilgefortz’s corpse and wipes it clean on the mage’s robes.

“Yenn, I’m so sorry,” Jaskier croaks. “So, so sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Her voice is heavy with exhaustion. She wants to curl up on the ground and sleep for a week.

“I almost killed you.” He reaches for her, but stops with his hands hovering over her like he doesn’t trust himself to touch her. “I don’t know how I managed to break his control. I thought I was going to stab Geralt, then you.”

Yennefer can feel blood trickling from her nose. “I knew I couldn’t fight him for control of your mind without hurting you, so I didn’t. I just created a wall in your mind. It gave you a fighting chance to shrug off his control.”

Jaskier stares at her. “You saved me again.”

“No,” Yennefer says. “I gave you the chance to save yourself. You did all the work.”

He swallows. “What I said—”

“It’s fine.” Yennefer looks away so he won’t see her expression. “Vilgefortz made you say what you needed to to get me alone. I’ll never bring it up again if you don’t.”

His hand cups her cheek and she turns to see him gazing at her with eyes full of love. “The words were all mine, Yenn. Every single one. He made me say them, but that’s because he was in my mind. He could see what I wanted to say to you.”

“Bardling, you don’t have to spare my feelings.” Yennefer tries for a breezy, dismissive tone, but falls short.

“I’m not.” He shakes his head. “I meant it all. Except for the bit where I almost stabbed you. That was all Vilgefortz.”

“You love me,” Yennefer says.

“Yes. If you need me to write you a sonnet, I’d be only too happy to—”

Yennefer grabs him by the front of his shirt, drags him towards her, and kisses him. It’s a desperate kiss, all teeth and tongue. They’re both bloody, sweaty, and disgusting. She doesn’t care. All that matters is that Jaskier is here with her, alive, and as he wraps his arms around her and she buries her hands in her hair, that’s enough.

“Hm.”

Jaskier and Yennefer break apart to see Geralt kneeling there, watching them. The expression on his face is inscrutable.

Yennefer refuses to give him time to brood. She reaches out to drag him towards her and kisses him. It’s been over a decade since they last kissed, but his mouth is as familiar as if it were yesterday. There’s no urgency to the kiss like there was with Jaskier; they kiss lazily for a long moment until Geralt pulls away, his expression as open and full of love as she’s ever seen it.

Yennefer reaches up to smooth his bloodied hair out of his face. “I can feel the bond again.”

He covers her hand with his, pressing it against his cheek. “So can I.”

“It doesn’t change anything.” She can feel herself smiling helplessly. “I feel exactly the same for you as I did an hour ago, as I’ve always felt for you.”

“Hasn’t changed anything for me either,” he whispers.

Jaskier laughs. “I would say ‘I told you so,’ but that would ruin the—”

Yennefer kisses him to silence him.

His lips curve into a smile against hers. “Ask Geralt, I’m very difficult to shut up. Though you’re welcome to keep trying.”

“Not right now,” Geralt says and the three of them turn as Ciri and Dara come running into the clearing.

“You’re okay!” Ciri races across the clearing and throws herself into Yennefer’s arms. “We heard screaming.”

“So naturally, you ran towards the screaming.” Yennefer holds the girl close, resting her chin on the top of Ciri’s head.

Dara hovers behind Ciri, looking uncertain, so Yennefer holds out an arm to him. He doesn’t hesitate before dropping to his knees and hugging her. She closes her eyes and holds them both close. Arms wrap around her— both Jaskier and Geralt’s— and she leans back against them.

“We’re okay,” Jaskier murmurs in her ear. “We’re all okay.”

And surrounded by her family, Yennefer believes it.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: In order to prevent Vilgefortz from taking control of his mind and forcing him to hurt Yennefer and Geralt, Jaskier attempts to drink the poison, but Yennefer stops him. If reading about a suicide attempt may be triggering for you, stop reading at "Jaskier doesn't want to die" and start again at the paragraph starting with "You're still not in total control, Yennefer."


	11. the three of us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _As the day progresses, the path grows steeper, the snow grows heavier, and the air grows colder. Jaskier stops complaining. Yennefer stops teasing him. Ciri and Dara stop laughing. Geralt starts wondering if he’s signed the others’ death warrant by insisting they attempt the climb this late in the year, if perhaps they should have found some other place to hole up for the winter._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your lovely comments last chapter!
> 
> Content warning for a brief mention of Yennefer's suicide attempt in episode 2.

Jaskier is almost always the last one of their party to wake up in the morning, but when he opens his eyes to the gray light of dawn, he finds Geralt, Yennefer, Ciri, and Dara still sleeping soundly. He’s tucked between Yennefer and Geralt with Geralt’s broad chest pressed against his back and Yennefer curled against his front, her face pressed against his shoulder. On Yennefer’s other side, Ciri and Dara are sleeping soundly. Jaskier slips out from between Yennefer and Geralt, eliciting a grumble from Geralt.

“Go back to sleep, love.” Jaskier smooths Geralt’s hair out of his face. “Nothing’s wrong, I’m just getting up.”

“Hm.” Geralt rolls into the space that Jaskier just vacated, pulling Yennefer against him. Jaskier looks down at them for a moment, his heart so unbearably full of love that it feels like too much.

Jaskier goes to sit by the campfire, which still crackles with the magical fire that Yennefer set the night before. Her having her chaos back has been a godsend. He warms his hand, looking around at the charred grass where Yennefer took Vilgefortz down the night before, the bloodstains on the ground, the mound of dirt that’s the mage’s final resting place. The battle the night before seems like it was ages ago, though Jaskier’s hands still shake when he thinks of how close he came to killing Yennefer or drinking the poison.

He pulls the poison out of his pocket and studies the tiny bottle. Such a small thing, to have been the only way he could think to protect Yennefer, Geralt, and the children. It’s been such a source of dread for the past month. He runs his tongue over his lips, feeling the bruise from where he pressed the bottle against his lips.

Jaskier doesn’t realize that Yennefer is awake until she sits down next to her. Instinctively, Jaskier scoots closer to her, reveling in the fact that he _can._ When the urge to touch her overtakes him, he no longer has to resist, because somehow, she loves him. He still doesn’t know how he got lucky enough to have both Geralt and Yennefer’s love, but he’s thankful for whatever he did in another life to deserve this.

“You don’t need that bottle, you know,” Yennefer says softly.

Jaskier glances down at the poison. “We still have days until we get to Kaer Morhen. We don’t know what’s going to happen between now and then. Even with Vilgefortz dead, there might be others after us.”

Geralt comes to sit down on his other side. When he sees the bottle of poison in Jaskier’s hand, his jaw tenses, but he says nothing.

“You’ve been keeping it because you thought if we were captured, it would be your best option,” Yennefer says. “You thought you were a weak link.”

“I am.” Jaskier lets out a humorless little laugh. “Vilgefortz didn’t even have to try to get in my head. All it took was for him to get me alone for five minutes.”

“But you fought him off, in the end. I helped, but it was you who did the work. It was you who threw off his control and stabbed him instead of killing Geralt.” Yennefer reaches out and takes hold of Jaskier’s knee. “When I didn’t have my powers, did you think I was useless, Jaskier?”

“I’ve seen you incinerate an army, Yenn. You can’t possibly think I’m dumb enough to answer that question.”

“Jaskier.” She says his name like an exasperated sigh.

“No.” Jaskier shakes his head. “I don’t think you could be useless if you tried.”

“Then why would you say that you’re useless?”

“Well, I’m shit with a sword, for one.”

“You’ll get better.” Geralt speaks with a confidence that Jaskier doesn’t think he’s done anything to earn. “Haven’t had the time to properly teach you.”

“That doesn’t help us between here and Kaer Morhen. If someone attacks us, I’m useless.”

Geralt stares into the fire. “We don’t need you to be useful, Jask.”

Jaskier’s lips twitch. “Is that your way of agreeing that I’m not?”

Geralt is quiet for a long moment, clearly trying to figure out what to say. “If I broke both my legs tomorrow and couldn’t fight, would that make you want me less?”

“Gods, no.” Jaskier is appalled at the thought.

“And if Yenn lost her chaos again? What about then?”

“Of course I would still want her.”

“It’s the same for us. It’s okay that you don’t fight. It’s okay that you can’t do magic. We don’t need that from you.”

“That won’t help us if I’m captured.”

Yennefer lets out an irritated huff. “Jaskier, do you think that Geralt and I have ever been under any illusions that you’re some kind of secret warrior or mage?”

“No, but—”

“We both knew exactly who you were when we fell in love with you. A little bit silly, a little bit vain, a lot irritating—”

“Yenn,” Geralt says reprovingly.

“I’m not done, Geralt. But you’re also brave and kind and infuriatingly lovable. We don’t need you to be useful, Jaskier, because we don’t love you because we have a _use_ for you. You should know as well as anyone that’s not what love is about. We need you, all four of us, even if you never learn how to wield a sword.”

Jaskier doesn’t say anything, staring down at the potion.

Yennefer rolls up her sleeve and holds out her wrist. Jaskier’s heart plummets at the sight of the long, thin scar on her wrist.

“Gods, Yenn,” he breathes.

“I was fourteen and it was my first night in Aretuza after my stepfather sold me.” Her expression is stony. “I thought this was my only choice. My only way of regaining control over my life. I know you’ve kept that bottle for the same reason, but this isn’t the way to keep control. This isn’t the way to protect us. Please.”

It’s the “please” that cracks Jaskier’s resolve. “I just don’t want to be something that can be used against you ever again. That was horrible, Yenn. I could have killed you.”

“But you didn’t,” Geralt says. “And now the five of us are going to Kaer Morhen. Together.”

The three of them sit in silence for a moment, all staring at the poison. When Jaskier unstoppers the bottle, he feels Geralt twitch next to him, but his lover makes no motion to snatch it out of his hand. Taking a deep breath, Jaskier dumps the poison out, watching as it seeps into the frozen ground.

“I suppose I couldn’t let the rest of you go on without my sparkling personality and my dashing—”

Yennefer grabs his face and kisses him.

Jaskier smiles against her mouth. “It’s nice how irresistible you find me, Yenn.”

She scoffs. “You should be more careful about pissing me off now that I have my chaos back, bardling.”

“Being careful about pissing people off has never been my strong suit.” Jaskier turns his head to kiss Geralt. “Thank you, both of you.”

“We didn’t do anything,” Geralt murmurs.

“No, you did.” Jaskier reaches out to take both of them by the hands. “It helps to know that you both want me, no matter what.”

“I don’t think I ever said those words.” Yennefer sniffs.

Jaskier exchanges eye rolls with Geralt. He feels odd, liberated but also shaky. It’s reassuring to have Geralt and Yennefer on either side of him and to know that they both know exactly who he is and care for him anyway. He kisses Geralt again, and then Yennefer, because he’s feeling too much to put it all into words right now.

“Is this how it’s going to be all the way to Kaer Morhen?” Ciri asks, sounding disgusted and the three of them turn to find her and Dara both awake. Dara is looking away, mortified, while Ciri has the air of a long-suffering chaperone.

Jaskier grins at them, unrepentant. “Oh, definitely.”

***

It snows off and on as they make their way north, stopping briefly in Ard Carraigh for supplies. The snow is light so far, but Geralt knows that once it starts snowing in the Blue Mountains, it doesn’t stop. They don’t have long before the path to Kaer Morhen is unpassable. Luckily, they make good time, with no more delays from bandits or assassins. They start early every morning and keep traveling well after dark, all five of them seeing the heavy clouds in the air and knowing that they mean an approaching snowstorm. If they don’t make it up the mountain before it hits, they’re fucked.

When they reach the base of the mountain, Yennefer, Jaskier, Ciri, and Dara all look up at it with wide eyes.

“Fuck, how long is that going to take to climb?” Jaskier breathes.

“Normally, three days.” Geralt looks up at the sky. “I’d say we need to make it in two.”

“Excellent.” Jaskier makes a show of stretching his legs. “I already hate everything about this. At least we have luxurious beds and fireplaces waiting for us, right?”

Geralt snorts. “It’s a crumbling keep in the mountains, Jaskier. There will be a bed.”

“Gods, you’re lucky I love you.” Jaskier turns big, sad eyes on Yennefer. “If only we had a badass sorceress who could portal us up the mountain so we could spend tonight in a nice, warm bed.”

“Bardling, I’ve only had my chaos back for a few days. It’s not completely stable yet. If you want half of you to end up at Kaer Morhen while the rest of you is left behind, I’d be happy to use you as a test subject.”

He looks thoughtful. “Which half?”

Yennefer shoots him a disgusted look that’s only somewhat softened by her fond smile. “Should we start walking, or should we stay here and listen to you complain all day?”

“We should start walking.” Geralt starts towards the path before Jaskier can utter another complaint. “Stay close. Lots of forktails and bears on this mountain.”

“Oh, fucking fantastic,” Jaskier mutters behind him. “Shouldn’t the forktails take care of the bears?”

“They prefer bards,” Geralt tells him.

“Just for that, Geralt of Rivia—”

The first day goes better than Geralt expected. The others are clearly exhausted, but they push themselves and the horses hard. The sky threatens snow, but very little actually falls. Jaskier complains and Yennefer complains about Jaskier complaining and Dara and Ciri both laugh at their antics, while Geralt watches them all with fond bemusement. But they make better time than Geralt expected and when they stop to make camp for the night, he feels confident for the first time since they left Sodden that they’ll all make it to Kaer Morhen in one piece.

And then his confidence evaporates when they wake up to discover that it started snowing in earnest overnight and that their whole party is soaked and shivering.

“We don’t stop until we reach the keep,” he tells them. “Even if that means traveling into the night.”

The mountain is a dangerous journey, especially at night, but the threat of getting stuck and freezing to death worries Geralt more than forktails and bears right now.

As the day progresses, the path grows steeper, the snow grows heavier, and the air grows colder. Jaskier stops complaining. Yennefer stops teasing him. Ciri and Dara stop laughing. Geralt starts wondering if he’s signed the others’ death warrant by insisting they attempt the climb this late in the year, if perhaps they should have found some other place to hole up for the winter.

But there’s no turning back now, so they keep climbing, Geralt on foot while Ciri and Dara ride Kelpie, Yennefer rides Pegaus, and Jaskier rides Roach. Jaskier keeps reaching down to touch Geralt, as if to reassure himself that Geralt is still there. As for Geralt, he listens to his four companions’ heartbeats, reassured by the steady beats.

The snow falls harder, the accumulation on the ground getting deeper. The trail gets steeper and narrower. Night falls. Even with his witcher eyesight, Geralt can barely see a foot in front of him.

“Maybe we should stop for the night!” Jaskier calls, his voice barely audible over the wind.

Geralt shakes his head. Hypothermia will get them if they stop, he knows. “We’re close,” he says, though he knows that they aren’t close enough.

“Geralt.” Yennefer’s voice is thready. “Help me down.”

He looks around to see her frowning down at him from Pegasus’ back, face pale. “That’s not a good idea.”

“The snow is getting deeper,” she says. “Soon, it will be too deep for the horses. I can help.”

“You’ll wear yourself out.” She already looks exhausted.

Yennefer scoffs. “Let me worry about that, witcher.”

When he lifts her down off Pegasus’ back, the snow is up to her thighs. She sways on her feet for a moment, then throws up her hands. Flames dance in the air in front of her, melting the snow on the ground and illuminating the path ahead of them.

“I don’t know how long I can hold this,” she says, sounding strained. “So we should move.”

They continue on their slow climb, Yennefer burning a path through the snow ahead of them. When she falters, Ciri dismounts Kelpie so Yennefer can use her as an anchor. When Yennefer is too tired to put one foot in front of the other, Geralt scoops her up into his arm and carries her. It’s a testament to how exhausted she is that she allows it.

And then he sees it, the looming shadow of the keep above them.

“We’re almost there,” he tells Yennefer. “Maybe another five miles. Can you make it?”

From any other person, he would think the sound she makes is a sob. She’s shaking in his arms, either from cold or exhaustion.

He brushes his lips across her temples. “You can do this, Yenn. For Jaskier, Ciri, and Dara.”

Yennefer lets out a thin, pained cry as the flames in front of them grow brighter and they keep moving.

***

Yennefer will never remember the last bit of the climb up the mountain. She remembers the flames and the exhaustion. She remembers Geralt’s arms around her and Ciri’s hand on her shoulder. She remembers Geralt’s voice in her ear. She remembers knowing that Jaskier and Dara were behind her, relying on her.

She remembers the murmur of men’s voices and the smell of cooking meat and ale. She remembers a brown haired witcher with a scarred face carrying her up a flight of steps. She remembers knowing that they somehow made it.

And later, she remembers a lumpy mattress, warm blankets, and Jaskier’s voice whispering, “You saved us again, my darling Yenn.”

***

She wakes up between Jaskier and Geralt, facing Geralt with Jaskier at her back. Jaskier is snoring in her ear, one leg thrown over her and his arm around her waist. Geralt is already awake, watching the two of them with sleepy yellow eyes. The room they’re in is cold and the mattress under them is made of straw, but it’s a bed under a roof, and that’s all Yennefer cares about right now.

“We made it,” she murmurs.

Geralt nods. “We made it.”

“I wasn’t sure we would.”

“Don’t think any of us were.” His brow furrows. “How are you feeling?”

Yennefer evaluates her body. Her thighs and ass hurt from riding horseback all day and she’s weak, but her chaos still burns bright inside her. “Like I just spent two days climbing a fucking mountain.”

“Hm. Well, lucky for you, Vesemir will take it easy on us today, since we just made it up the mountain. Tomorrow, the chores start.”

“Chores?” Behind Yennefer, Jaskier stirs. “No one said anything about manual labor.”

Geralt nods gravely. “And if you complain, it will be privy duty for you.”

Jaskier squawks far too loudly for this time of morning. Yennefer swats at him in retaliation.

“Geralt, I have far too delicate of a constitution for privy duty,” Jaskier whines. “Have mercy on me.”

“Don’t worry.” Geralt’s lips twitch. “Lambert’s a prick, so he’ll spend most of the winter stuck with it.”

“Well, thank the gods for Lambert.”

“You’d be the first person to ever say that.”

Yennefer closes her eyes and snuggles deeper under the covers. Both of her lovers’ grips tighten on her. “Ciri and Dara?”

“Ciri’s right across the hall and Dara’s in the room next to hers,” Geralt says. “They’re both fine.”

Yennefer nods. There’s more to say, but she’s already drifting off back to sleep.

***

It’s mid-morning by the time Geralt, Yennefer, and Jaskier drag themselves out of bed. Geralt would normally rise at dawn, even the day after climbing the mountain to Kaer Morhen, but now that he has both Yennefer and Jaskier safe and warm in a bed, he finds himself unwilling to extract himself from the comfort of having them in his arms. Throughout the morning, they doze, waking only to exchange lazy kisses. It’s only when Jaskier’s stomach starts to growl that the three of them extract themselves from the pile of blankets and dress to head downstairs.

“Is there a bath?” Jaskier asks hopefully, not being as subtle about sniffing himself as he thinks he is.

Geralt nods. “Downstairs, there’s a tub. We can fill it later.”

“Big enough for three?” Jaskier casts a hopeful look between them.

Geralt snorts. “What use would a keep of witchers have for a tub big enough for three?”

“Don’t say things like that.” A slow, wolfish smile crosses Jaskier’s face. “You’re going to give me ideas.”

Geralt groans. 

“Give me a few days to rest my chaos, bardling, and I’ll see what I can do about conjuring us a proper bath.” Yennefer turns flinty eyes on the bed. “And a bed, for that matter.”

“What’s wrong with the bed?” Geralt asks.

“After the month I’ve had, I want a feather mattress and silk sheets,” Yennefer says.

“Can you make it a four-poster bed, Yenn?” Jaskier asks. “With velvet curtains? I love sleeping in beds with curtains. Adds a little drama to waking up.”

“Oh, like you need the drama.”

“I’m not sure what you’re trying to say, but I’m choosing to ignore it.”

Geralt shakes his head at the two of them. “Do you want breakfast or not?”

“Breakfast.” Jaskier bustles towards the door, still pulling on his shirt. “Definitely breakfast.”

They make their way downstairs, Jaskier oohing and ahhing like the crumbling old keep is a luxurious palace. Perhaps after a month on the road, it is. Geralt notices that he’s keeping an arm around Yennefer, offering the still-weary sorceress support under the guise of affection. If Yennefer notices the ruse, she says nothing.

“You’ll give us a tour after breakfast, right?” Jaskier asks Geralt eagerly, eyes shining. “This place must be fascinating.”

“Don’t know about fascinating,” Geralt says. “But I can give you a tour.”

The kitchen is the warmest part of the keep, what with the enormous stone fireplace that dominates one wall, so is where they typically gather. That’s where Geralt, Jaskier, and Yennefer find Ciri and Dara already awake, being entertained by Vesemir, Eskel, Lambert, and Coën. They all turn around as Geralt, Jaskier, and Yennefer come into the kitchen.

“Figures you’d show up with an entire herd of guests and then sleep until nearly nightfall,” Lambert says.

“Getting hard to tell time in your old age?” Geralt shoots back. “It’s not even noon.”

“Oh, you must be Lambert.” Jaskier beams at the youngest Wolf, which seems to confuse Lambert.

Introductions are made again, since even though Jaskier and Yennefer briefly met the others the night before, they were both so exhausted that Geralt doubts they remember anything. While Yennefer and Jaskier are introducing themselves to the other witchers, Geralt glances over to make sure that Ciri and Dara are okay. Ciri is situated between Vesemir and Coën, looking entirely at ease. Dara looks and smells a bit nervous, but he seems to have already warmed up to Eskel, as Geralt expected. Eskel is good at making himself appear nonthreatening.

“We’ve gotten bits and pieces from the pups,” Vesemir says once the introductions are over. “But I’m curious how you managed to show up at the last possible minute with a sorceress, a bard, and two children in tow, Geralt.”

“In his defense, he didn’t have much of a choice about the bard.” Jaskier plops down in a seat next to Lambert without an invitation, already looking like he belongs there. Lambert gives him a dubious look. Geralt can already tell the two of them are going to get along splendidly and make his life miserable. “I just kind of started following him and never let him go.”

“You do that, bardling.” Yennefer goes to sit next to him.

Geralt finds everyone looking at him, like they expect him to be the one to tell the story.

“Come on, Wolf.” Eskel settles back, crossing his arms over his chest. “Sounds like it’s quite the tale.”

Geralt isn’t a natural born storyteller like Jaskier, who he’s sure could make it sound like an epic tale of adventure, terror, and romance. But he starts with Pavetta’s betrothal feast in Cintra— a story that raises several eyebrows, given their school’s mixed history with the Law of Surprise— and him fleeing the kingdom afterwards, only to return years later when Nilfgaard was about to invade. He talks about meeting Jaskier, fleeing the burning city, and their search for Ciri. He talks about the doppler who impersonated Mousesack, reuniting with Yennefer, and finally finding Ciri and Dara. He talks about Sodden Hill and deciding to travel to Kaer Morhen in the aftermath. He talks about the journey here, with the bandits and the burning barns and Vilgefortz’s attack. When he’s done, his voice is hoarse and everyone is staring at him.

“Damn,” Lambert says after a long moment. “Quite a month you’re having.”

It seems impossible to Geralt that it’s only been about a month. So much has happened.

“I was in Cintra when I heard Nilfgaard was marching north,” Coën says. “Got out of there once I realized how bad it was going to be. We probably just missed each other.”

“I wondered why they hated witchers so bad in Cintra,” Lambert says. “It all makes sense now. I always thought it was just because Calanthe didn’t like non-humans. What?” he asks when Vesemir swats him on the back of the head. “I’m just saying—”

“Lambert.” Eskel’s voice is a growl.

“It’s fine,” Ciri says quietly. “I know what my grandmother did.”

Everyone turns to look at her, at the little princess who it seems like half the Continent is after, who has completely upended Geralt’s life. Her chin lifts at the scrutiny.

“”So, you’re teaching her how to fight, Geralt?” Lambert asks.

Geralt nods. “And she’s a damn natural.”

Ciri’s cheeks turn pink.

“And you’re teaching her how to be a sorceress?” Lambert looks at Yennefer.

She nods. “To the best of my ability.”

“So, which one do you want to be?” He turns to Ciri. “Princess, witcher, or sorceress?”

She lifts one shoulder into a shrug. “Who says I can’t be all three?”

***

By the end of their first real day at Kaer Morhen, Jaskier already knows he’s going to love it here. Sure, the keep is enormous and drafty, with far too many corridors that end abruptly in a mass of collapsed stones and staircases that he’s not allowed to climb alone in case he falls and cracks his head open. But it’s beautiful, in a remote, terrifying sort of way, and Geralt’s fellow witchers are a delight. After only a day, they seem to have adopted Ciri and Dara as their own. 

They spend a long day exploring the keep and then a long night playing Gwent and sipping White Gull— which is truly terrible stuff— before Geralt, Jaskier, and Yennefer call it a night. Jaskier snags a bottle of White Gull and three mugs, shooting Yennefer a wink, which she returns with an eye roll. They leave Ciri and Dara still listening with rapt attention as Eskel tells a story about a forktail hunt and make their way up to their room.

As the door closes behind him, Jaskier becomes abruptly aware that this is the first time he’s really had Yennefer and Geralt alone in a room. Last night hardly counts, since he and Yennefer were both barely conscious. But for the first time in weeks, they’re completely safe. They don’t have to worry about bandits or corrupt soldiers. Ciri and Dara are safe downstairs with four witchers who will do anything to protect them. All Jaskier, Yennefer, and Geralt need to focus on is each other.

“So.” Jaskier puts the glasses down on the small oak table in the corner and pours them each some White Gull. “I think we should talk.”

“Don’t you always?” Geralt smirks.

Jaskier makes a face at him, passing both of them their glasses. “Look, I just think that since this is the first time in weeks that we haven’t been fleeing for our lives, that we’re due for a conversation. Unless you two would prefer the tried and true method of not discussing our emotions until there’s a small miscommunication that blows up and then we don’t talk for a decade?”

“Hm.” Geralt glances at Yennefer.

“What do you want to talk about, bardling?” she asks.

Jaskier goes to lean against the wall, then immediately regrets it when the wall turns out to be freezing. Instead, he goes to perch on the edge of the bed. “Look, I understand that you two have been dancing around each other for years and I respect that. I don’t want to get in the way of anything—”

“You’re not in the way.” Geralt’s brow furrows. “You’re the reason the three of us are here.”

“Ah.” Jaskier smiles into his glass of White Gull. “I’m sure the two of you would have figured things out eventually.”

“No, we wouldn’t have,” Yennefer says matter-of-factly. “I would have been angry and Geralt would have felt guilty until the day one of us died. And then the other one would have continued on being angry or guilty, but also grieving.”

“Well, that’s a grim picture.” Jaskier takes a deep breath. He’s usually so good with words, but with both of them looking at him so intently, he’s left flustered and tongue-tied. “I just don’t want to overstep.”

“Bardling, don’t be an idiot.” Yennefer crosses the room and takes his face in her hands. “If it’s going to be the three of us, it’s going to be the three of us. It doesn’t matter that I slept with Geralt first. Unless I need that to win an argument.”

Jaskier smiles, relaxing at the scent of her lilac and gooseberry magic. It’s lost the scorched edge it held before. “So, is it going to be the three of us?”

“Yes,” she says. “I thought that was already clear.”

“With things like this, it’s nice to spell it out,” Jaskier says. “So, is it the three of us just while we’re here at Kaer Morhen for the winter, or even after that?”

Yennefer and Geralt exchange glances.

“Spent a long time missing you, Yenn.” Geralt’s voice is so quiet, Jaskier can barely hear it. “Don’t want to have to do it again.”

Yennefer’s expression softens and she crosses the room to kiss Geralt. Jaskier may or may not let out an audible sigh at the lovely sight.

When Yennefer pulls away, she says, “There’s no way of knowing what the future will hold. Cahir and Vilgefortz may be gone, but Nilfgaard isn’t. Our priority will need to be keeping Ciri safe and providing a home of sorts for Ciri and Dara. Those goals may bring us to different sides of the Continent. That being said, I have no intention of letting either of you go anytime soon. Even if we’re not physically together.”

“That was almost romantic, Yenn.” Jaskier gives into the grin tugging at his lips.

“That being said.” Yennefer looks around. “While I’ll share your room most nights, I need my own space.”

“We can prepare another room for you tomorrow,” Geralt says.

She nods. “And I have… other mutually beneficial relationships with several friends and acquaintances that I would be loath to give up. When Geralt and I were lovers, it was our agreement that we could take other lovers when we were apart, so long as there were no secrets between us.”

“That works for me,” Jaskier says. “Because while you two are everything I need, I would miss the occasional casual tumble.”

Geralt nods. “Just no fucking my brothers this winter.”

Jaskier’s jaw drops. “But Eskel’s shoulders—”

“No fucking my brothers. That’s my one rule.”

“Fine,” Jaskier says reluctantly. “Does Coën count?”

“Yes.”

“What about Vesemir? Since he’s more of a father than a—”

Geralt’s eyes widen with horror. “ _Jaskier_.”

“Fine, fine, I’ll take that as a yes.” Jaskier holds up his hands in surrender. “I’m a one-witcher bard. I’m not sure how I persevere, but they say that suffering builds character.”

“I could portal him down the mountain and leave them there,” Yennefer says to Geralt.

“Hm, he’d find a way back up.”

Jaskier makes the expected offended noises, then lets silence fill the room. He looks between Geralt and Yennefer, who both watch him intently. He shivers under their gazes, very aware of the bed and the evening ahead of them with nowhere to be and nothing to worry about.

A slow smile crosses his face. “So, what now?”

***


	12. a cottage on the coast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _When Jaskier wakes up, he’s in his favorite position in the world, his head on Geralt’s chest and one of his witcher’s strong arms wrapped around him, holding him close. And it’s made better by the soft, slim fingers stroking gently over his jawline. When he opens his eyes, he finds both Geralt and Yennefer awake, watching him with sleepy eyes._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this is it! Thank you to everyone for your comments and kudos, particularly those of you who have taken the time to comment every week. I've appreciated all of you.

“So, what now?” Jaskier asks, expression bright and eager as he looks between Geralt and Yennefer. He’s wearing one of Geralt’s old shirts— Yennefer is really going to need to summon him a new wardrobe— and it’s too big on him, slipping down his shoulder and exposing a good amount of chest hair. Yennefer lets her eyes rove over him shamelessly.

“Well, first thing’s first.” Yennefer sends a surge of chaos towards the bed. Jaskier lets out a startled squawk as he’s enveloped in heavy velvet curtains. Geralt’s simple straw mattress has turned into an enormous four-poster bed, complete with a feather mattress, silken sheets, and velvet curtains. It’s just an illusion, as Yennefer doesn’t quite have the strength for the real thing, but Jaskier doesn’t need to know that tonight.

She crosses the space between them, pulling back the curtain to reveal Jaskier giving her an accusatory look.

“A little warning next time, please,” he says with a huff.

“You’re the one who said you wanted drama,” Yennefer says and kisses him. After a long moment, she pulls away and says, “You’re wearing too many clothes.”

Jaskier doesn’t need any further encouragement to scramble out of his clothing. Yennefer watches hungrily as he peels his shirt and trousers away, revealing a long, lean body with strong legs and deliciously broad shoulders. He’s as pretty as she’s been imagining him, right down to the lovely cock already hard and ready for her.

A hand rests on her lower back and she looks around to find Geralt standing there, watching her with his pupils blown wide. His fingers trace the laces on the back of her dress.

“It’s only fair,” he murmurs.

“I suppose so.” She turns to kiss him as he unlaces the back of her dress, very aware of Jaskier’s eyes on them. When her dress puddles to the ground at her feet, Jaskier lets out a little whimper.

“Like what you see, bardling?” Yennefer asks as Geralt’s mouth trails down her throat, his hands cupping her breasts.

“You know I do.” He sounds strangled.

Yennefer gasps as Geralt’s mouth finds one of her nipples, his tongue swirling over the peak. He’s always been astonishingly good with his mouth. Yennefer cups his face in her hands as he lavishes her breasts with attention. When she glances over at Jaskier, she sees that he has his cock in his hand and is watching them hungrily.

Yennefer brushes Geralt’s hair out of his face. “Has our bardling fucked you yet, Geralt?”

Geralt makes a punched-out noise.

She smirks. “I’ll take that as a no. I want to watch Jaskier fuck you.”

“Fuck,” Jaskier says in a raspy voice.

“Yes, that is the idea.”

Geralt raises his mouth back to hers, kissing her fiercely. “What about you?”

“Well, you’re going to fuck me afterwards, of course.” Yennefer tugs at his breeches. “Time for these to come off.”

Geralt is a bit more composed about stripping his clothes off than Jaskier was. He doesn’t exactly scramble out of them, but he undresses more quickly than he normally would. Yennefer drinks in the sight of him with her eyes, marveling at the loveliness of him. He’s beautiful in an entirely different way from Jaskier, but no less stunning. She runs her hand down his stomach, letting her fingers play over soft skin and rough scar tissue.

“Are you ready to take care of our witcher, bardling?” she asks.

“You have no idea how ready. Every person I’ve ever fucked has been preparing me for this moment. I—”

“Please go shut him up,” Yennefer tells Geralt.

Geralt’s lips quirk. “Only if you help. Think it’s a two person job.”

“Well, if you insist.”

They both turn and crawl towards the bard, whose Adam’s apple bobs at their approach. Yennefer settles against the headboard, watching as Geralt bends to kiss Jaskier. She knew they would be breathtaking together, with Geralt’s strong thighs bracketing Jaskier’s narrow hips and his large hands cupping Jaskier’s face, but she isn’t prepared for just how affected she is by the sight. When she dips her hand between her legs to ghost her fingers over her folds, she finds herself already wet.

“Is this what you want?” Geralt murmurs.

Jaskier lets out a little laugh, reaching around the witcher to cup his ass and squeeze. “Geralt, you walk around in the tightest pants I’ve ever seen. On the entire fucking Continent, there is no ass I’d rather have my cock in.”

“He takes it so well,” Yennefer says. “You should hear the noises he makes.”

Jaskier’s eyes go wide. “You—”

“Of course. It’s one of his favorite things.” Yennefer smiles at the look of awe on Jaskier’s face. “Which you’ll find out if you stop gawping at me and get to it.”

“Everyone’s a critic,”Jaskier grumbles, but he’s smiling as he kisses Geralt, then slides his way down Geralt’s body. Geralt shifts, spreading his legs wider and canting his hips up so Jaskier can settle between his thighs. Jaskier begins kissing and nuzzling at Geralt’s cock, peppering it with teasing little licks. When Geralt growls at him, Jaskier laughs and swallows the witcher’s prick down as far as it will go. Geralt groans, closing his eyes and tilting his head back in pleasure. His entire body is shaking with the effort it takes him not to thrust.

“Jaskier,” Yennefer says. “Are you okay with Geralt fucking your mouth?”

Jaskier’s mouth is full, but the noise he makes seems to signal enthusiastic consent.

“I could hurt him,” Geralt says through gritted teeth.

“You could, if you weren’t careful,” Yennefer says. “But we know you will be. Go ahead.”

Slowly, carefully, Geralt begins moving his hips in shallow little thrusts. Jaskier groans around his cock, eliciting a twin sound of pleasure from Geralt. Yennefer watches them move together for a long moment, as Geralt gasps, hips stuttering, and Jaskier’s fingers dig into the flesh of Geralt’s thighs. She snatches the little jar of oil from the bedside table and crawls towards them, slipping behind Geralt and straddling Jaskier’s waist. Slicking her fingers up with oil, she strokes them over the cleft of Geralt’s lovely ass.

Geralt makes a noise that would be called a whimper on most people. “Yenn.”

“I missed this.” She circles her little finger over the rim of his hole. “Our bardling’s right about one thing. No one on the Continent has a lovelier ass.”

“Mmm hmm,” Jaskier agrees.

Yennefer slips her little finger inside Geralt, feeling the ring of muscle contract around her. Geralt groans as she begins to swirl her finger around inside of him. When she slips a second finger inside him, his thighs begin to tremble.

“Do you like that?” she murmurs.

He can only make a soft, choked noise in response.

She gives him another moment to adjust to the two fingers, then slips a third in, scissoring them. Underneath her, Jaskier shifts, his cock brushing her thighs, and he moans. That seems to be all it takes to push Geralt over the edge. He comes with a shuddering groan, just managing to catch himself on the headboard to stop himself from collapsing on top of Jaskier.

Jaskier gives a breathy little laugh. “Alright there, love?”

“Fuck,” is all Geralt can say.

Yennefer presses a kiss to Geralt’s back. His skin is salty with sweat. “Get back here, Jaskier.”

“Happily.”

She shifts over so that he can slide between Geralt’s legs and kneel next to her, facing Geralt. He watches hungrily as Yennefer continues to work Geralt open.

“Fuck, Geralt, you’re gorgeous,” Jaskier says. “You should see yourself right now. Should we get a mirror in here? I think we should get a mirror—”

With her hand that isn’t occupied, Yennefer pulls Jaskier to her and kisses him. She can taste Geralt’s spend on his lips; it’s shockingly erotic.

“I’m ready,” Geralt growls.

“I don’t know.” Yennefer wiggles her fingers, eliciting another groan. “What do you think, Jaskier?”

“Let me see.” Jaskier dips his index finger into the oil and slowly works it inside Geralt. “Almost there, I think, but not quite.”

Geralt turns around and bares his teeth at them.

“He’s adorable when he gets growly like that, isn’t he?” Yennefer asks Jaskier in a conspiratorial whisper.

Jaskier nods with mock seriousness. “Like a puppy.”

Geralt grumbles at that, but Yennefer’s knuckles brush his prostate and any protests he was going to make break off in a groan.

“How do you want me, darling?” Jaskier asks.

“Just fuck me,” Geralt says. “I’m not picky, I just want you inside me.”

“Oh, gods.” Jaskier swallows. “Okay. I think I can do that.”

It’s almost adorable, how nervous he looks, like this is his first time ever sticking his cock in someone. Yennefer withdraws her fingers from Geralt and goes to lean against the headboard, watching as Jaskier slicks himself up, peppering Geralt’s back with kisses as he works. Geralt, who always used to shy from tenderness as if allergic to it, leans into the gentle kisses and touches. Yennefer lets her legs fall open, smirking as both men watch her begin to stroke her clit.

“You two focus on each other,” she tells them. “I can take care of myself.”

“We can see that.” Jaskier presses a kiss to the back of Geralt’s neck, eyes still on Yennefer. “You ready, love?”

“Yes.” Geralt’s voice is a rasp of wanting.

Jaskier lines himself up behind Geralt and slowly begins to work his way inside the witcher with slow rolls of his hips. Geralt matches his movements with thrusts of his own, his cock already filling back up. Witcher stamina is a beautiful thing. They’re lovely as they move together. Geralt clutches the sheets in a white-knuckled grip, while Jaskier’s hands don’t seem to be able to stop moving as they roam over Geralt’s body. His face is slack with pleasure, eyes fluttering as he thrusts into Geralt.

“Gods, Geralt,” Jaskier says. “Oh, you feel so fucking good.”

Geralt watches the movement of Yennefer’s fingers against her clit. “Yenn,” he says hoarsely.

Yennefer doesn’t need to ask what he’s thinking. She nods her assent and he reaches out to grasp her thighs, pulling her close. She wraps her legs around his shoulders, gasping as Geralt buries his head between her thighs and begins to lick. Gods, she forgot how good he was at this. She lies back and loses herself in the sensation of his tongue and the tickle of his breath against her skin and the moans they’re both making. She comes quickly, reaching her peak with a cry. Geralt only licks harder, spurred on by the noise.

The three of them move together, their bodies tangled up in a mess of limbs, lost entirely in the feel of each other. Jaskier moans in pleasure as he comes, hips stilling. Geralt presses his face against Yennefer’s thigh, breathing heavily.

“Fuck, Yennefer,” Jaskier says breathlessly. “You have the best ideas.”

Geralt looks up at Yennefer with pupils gone enormous with lust. “Can I—”

“Yes.” Yennefer doesn’t need to hear what he wants to do. Anything that involves Geralt’s body pressed against hers seems like a good idea.

Geralt kisses his way up Yennefer’s body until he’s on top of her, arms bracketing his head as he brushes his lips over her face. Jaskier collapses on the pillow next to Yennefer and she turns her head to capture his mouth with hers as Geralt begins to fuck her. Having Geralt inside her feels as familiar as if no time has passed at all since the last time they did this. She remembers it all— the smell of his skin, the sounds he makes as he sinks into her, the way his breathing goes shaky. As Jaskier’s clever fingers begin toying with her nipple, Yennefer comes again, her back arching in pleasure. Geralt’s hips snap harder until he reaches his own peak.

Afterwards, the three of them lie there, looking up at the dark green canopy above them.

“Next time, could we make the magical bed a little bit more colorful?” Jaskier asks sleepily. “Perhaps a nice peacock blue, or even a plum?”

Yennefer exchanges eye rolls with Geralt. “Are you really complaining about the bed, bardling?”

“Not complaining, just offering a bit of helpful advice.”

“Where was the helpful part?”

“Don’t tell me Geralt’s taste in fashion is wearing off on you.”

“Listen, you—”

Geralt puts his arms around both of them and gathers them both to his chest. “No arguing.”

Jaskier, the beautiful idiot, is immediately distracted by the witcher’s chest, nuzzling at his pecs happily.

Yennefer sighs at both of them. “If you don’t want me to argue with him, tell him to be less infuriating.”

Jaskier huffs. “Geralt, tell her if she wants me to be less infuriating, then she—”

“Hm,” Geralt says. “I see that fucking isn’t going to change anything between you two.”

Jaskier grins, looking far too smug. “Why mess with perfection?”

***

When Jaskier wakes up, he’s in his favorite position in the world, his head on Geralt’s chest and one of his witcher’s strong arms wrapped around him, holding him close. And it’s made better by the soft, slim fingers stroking gently over his jawline. When he opens his eyes, he finds both Geralt and Yennefer awake, watching him with sleepy eyes. They were up late last night, with Jaskier and Yennefer getting to know each other’s bodies while Geralt and Yennefer got reacquainted after their decade apart. Jaskier yawns and stretches languorously, savoring his various aches.

“Good morning, my loves,” he says. “I think this may be a day for staying in bed all day. What do you think?”

“There’s work around the keep that needs to be done.” Geralt nuzzles at his hair. “Vesemir won’t let us stay in bed all day.”

Jaskier pouts. “But surely he’ll take pity on the hapless bard who was up all night showing his two beautiful lovers previously unheard of amounts of pleasure.”

“Think highly of yourself, don’t you, bardling?” Yennefer asks dryly.

Jaskier makes a face at her.

Geralt chuckles. “If we get up now, we might be able to find time for an afternoon nap. Got to take care of our poor, exhausted bard, after all.”

Jaskier eyes him speculatively. “And when you say nap…”

Geralt grins wolfishly. “You took good care of me last night. Probably should return the favor.”

“And I’m up. In more ways than one.” Jaskier scrambles out of bed, suddenly more than ready to greet the day.

***

Geralt is pleased by how well Yennefer, Jaskier, Ciri, and Dara settle into the rhythms of life at Kaer Morhen in the days that follow. He expected there to be growing pains, with Yennefer bristling about being given chores by Vesemir, Ciri adjusting to a life without luxury, Jaskier probably annoying the shit out of the others with his chattering, and Dara being terrified of being surrounded by witchers.

Certainly, there are some tense moments. Yennefer and Lambert haven’t entirely warmed up to each other; they’re equally prickly and frequently rub each other the wrong way. Vesemir initially gives Ciri and Dara far too many chores and Geralt has to take the old witcher aside and remind him that they’re not witcher trainees, but children unused to hours and hours of manual labor. After so many winters of a near-empty keep, the sudden addition of four new people in their pack is a bit overwhelming and more than once, Geralt goes to find a quiet corner to take a breather, only to find said quiet corner already occupied by another witcher.

But despite these minor hiccups, things are going better than Geralt ever expected. Ciri is immediately the darling of all the witchers, particularly Coën, who takes it on himself to come up with a training regimen for the young princess. Coën is a natural-born teacher, so Geralt is only too happy to hand over the reins to the Griffin. Dara, meanwhile, becomes Vesemir and Eskel’s shadow, spending most of his days either in the kitchen with Vesemir or the stables with Eskel. He shows a natural inclination for helping Vesemir make tinctures and potions.

“Lad’s a natural herbalist,” Vesemir tells Geralt proudly one day, while Dara looks somewhere between pleased and mortified. “Puts the rest of us to shame.”

“Hm.” Geralt smiles at Dara, which makes the boy look even more mortified. When the winter’s through, perhaps they should reach out to Triss Merigold. She’s trustworthy, and if Dara is truly interested in herbalism, she would be a good teacher for him.

When Yennefer isn’t training Ciri, she largely keeps to herself, finding remote places where she can practice regaining complete control of her chaos without having to worry about collateral damage. There’s one unfortunate incident with a brick wall when Lambert rounds a corner at an inopportune time and startles her, but Vesemir assures everyone that the wall was about to collapse anyway, so there’s no real harm done. Unsurprisingly, the witcher she gets along with best is Coën, and Geralt has found them sitting together in the library several times, discussing magic and Ciri’s training.

And as for Jaskier…

“He suits you,” Eskel tells Geralt one evening, while Jaskier is busy entertaining Lambert by coming up with increasingly filthy ditties. The children are long in bed, thankfully. “And Yennefer too. I didn’t think he would at first, but now that I’ve seen the three of you together, I can’t imagine one of you without the others.”

Geralt looks at Jaskier, who looks delighted at his own foul-mouthed wit, and then at Yennefer, who is making a show of being exasperated by him and Lambert while not doing much to hide her fond smile. “Neither can I,” he says, and it’s the truth. Now that he’s had this, he doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to go back to a solitary life on the Path.

Family isn’t for witchers, he was always told. Finding a home and settling down wasn’t for witchers. But that will have to change, because Ciri, Dara, and Jaskier deserve a home. Yennefer too, though she would never admit that she wants such a pedestrian thing as to settle down.

They’ve been in Kaer Morhen for about two weeks when Geralt finds Yennefer at the top of the keep’s one remaining tower. It overlooks the training yard, where Ciri is currently practicing swordplay with Coën while Eskel and Lambert spar. Over the clash of swords, the twang of lute strings and laughter is audible as Jaskier tries to teach Dara how to play the lute. The boy is terrible, but they both seem to be enjoying themselves.

Yennefer is lifting a cluster of rocks in the air, making them dance and twirl around each other. Geralt goes to stand next to her, but doesn’t say anything to break her concentration. Instead, he watches the training yard, where Lambert is doing what he does best and calling out unhelpful suggestions to Coën and Ciri, until they get tired of him and start chasing him around the yard with their training swords. Jaskier cackles so hard at the sight that he nearly falls off the low stone wall he’s sitting on.

“They’re happy here,” Yennefer says softly.

Geralt nods, glancing over at her. “And you?”

Her lips quirk. “Well, I won’t say that a ruin in the mountains is where I ever pictured myself ending up, but it’s pleasant enough. And they’re safe, which is the most important thing.”

“This won’t be forever, Yenn.”

“I know.”

They both look down at their little family as Lambert vaults over the stone wall to hide behind Jaskier and Dara. With a warcry, Ciri leaps after him. Jaskier shrieks and snatches his lute from Dara, trying to hold it above the fray.

“He’s ridiculous,” Yennefer says fondly.

Geralt nods. “Absurd.”

“I don’t think we’d be here without him, though.”

“No, probably not.”

“I hope that we’ll be better this time. For his sake, and for Ciri and Dara’s. And for ours.”

Geralt has been thinking the same thing, worrying about whether he and Yennefer will repeat their mistakes of ten years ago, fall apart over the same old arguments. But they both know about the djinn wish now and know what it means for them. They have Ciri, Dara, and Jaskier. In many ways, they’re different people than the ones who broke each other’s hearts on a mountaintop all those years ago.

“We will,” he says. “Don’t think Jaskier will give us much of a choice.”

“You’re probably right about that.” She leans against him and they stand there for a long moment in silence.

“I’ve been thinking,” Geralt says after a bit. “After what happens when we leave here.”

“We just got here, and you’re already planning on leaving?”

“Not yet,” Geralt says. “But it might be good for Ciri and Dara to get to grow up around other people their age. Let them have a taste of a normal life.”

“What’s a normal life, Geralt?”

Geralt has no idea. Whatever it is, he wants their kids to experience it. “We can’t stay here forever. Don’t think it will be for another few years, at least, but we should think about what happens next.”

“And?”

“Think it might be a good idea for us to find someplace to settle down. Somewhere far enough north that Nilfgaard won’t find us, where Ciri and Dara can grow up.”

“Sounds an awful lot like retirement, Geralt.” She arches an eyebrow at him. “I thought witchers don’t do that.”

“Witchers also don't have families. But here we are.”

Her lips curl into a smile. “So, what? We find a cottage on the coast somewhere? Settle down? Grow old?”

“It’ll be a long, long time before any of us grow old, Yenn.” Geralt glances back down at the yard. He must have missed something, because now, Jaskier has somehow talked Lambert into learning how to play the lute.

“I don’t know if you and I are cottage on the coast people,” Yennefer says softly.

“Think we could be.” Geralt presses a kiss against her temple. “For them.”

Yennefer nods. “And for us too, I think.”

Down below, Lambert gives up on his spur of the moment music lesson, shoving the lute back into Jaskier’s arms and stalking across the yard to rejoin Eskel and Coën in the training yard. Ciri plops down into the space he just vacated, cheeks pink and eyes bright. She looks happy, Geralt thinks, like a twelve year old should during a day spent with her family. Not like a former princess with the weight of the Continent’s future on her shoulders.

“I like it here,” Geralt hears her tell Jaskier.

“So do I.” Jaskier is watching Eskel and Coën gang up on Lambert with an amused smile curling his lips, tapping out a tune only he can hear against his thigh.

“I wasn’t expecting to. It’s not… well, it’s not the kind of place I ever thought I’d be happy.”

“All the crumbling walls and collapsed staircases are quite intimidating, aren’t they?”

Geralt snorts.

Yennefer shoots him a fond look. “Eavesdropper.”

He doesn’t bother denying it.

“I wish I could have known them all sooner.” Ciri’s voice grows quiet, almost too low for Geralt to hear her. “I wish my grandmother had let me meet Geralt earlier. Maybe I could have had all of them in my life all along.”

“Destiny works in mysterious ways, my dear. You and Geralt found each other eventually. That’s what matters.” When she doesn’t reply, Jaskier slings an arm around her. “It’s normal to miss how things used to be. It’s normal to mourn your family. You can grieve for what you’ve lost and still find joy in what you’ve found. There’s no shame in it.”

“I know,” Ciri says. “I just hope it will get easier.”

“It does,” Dara pipes up from Jaskier’s other side. “It takes a long time. But someday, you’ll be able to think about them without thinking about how they died.”

Yennefer holds out a hand to Geralt. “Why don’t we go join them?”

He nods, blanching when a portal opens up behind them. “We could just take the stairs.”

“Oh, but then I can’t practice my portaling.”

“Aren’t you worried about half of me being left up here?”

She smirks. “Which half?”

Geralt kisses her. “Jaskier is rubbing off on you.”

“Say that again, and dismemberment by portal will be the least of your concerns.”

He chuckles and they step through the portal, reappearing in the courtyard. Luckily, all body parts are accounted for. Jaskier’s expression brightens when he sees them.

“Excellent!” he says. “Dara is well on his way to being a prodigy lutist. Why don’t we show them what you’ve learned, Dara?”

A dusky flush colors the boy’s cheeks. “You’ve only taught me two notes.”

“And that’s two notes more than what you knew this morning!”

“We’d love to hear it.” Yennefer settles down on the wall next to Dara.

“I am an excellent teacher.” Jaskier puffs out his chest.

“Is that why I still can’t carry a tune?” Ciri asks him sweetly.

“You cannot possibly blame that on me! You were like that when I became your tutor.”

Chuckling, Geralt sits next to Ciri, listening to the tentative sound of Dara strumming a note on the lute, the clash of swords, and Lambert’s loud swearing. None of them have any idea of what comes next, but right now, he’s surrounded by all of the people he lives. His brothers are here, with Eskel and Coën laughing at Lambert’s antics. Vesemir is watching with an amused smile. Ciri, Dara, Jaskier, and Yennefer are next to him, all safe and happy, far from danger.

Jaskier’s eyes meet Geralt’s over Ciri’s head and he smiles, blue eyes glinting in the sunlight.

For the first time in a long, long time, Geralt lets himself hope for the future.

***

**Later**

Jaskier has been alive for a long time. He’s survived a war several times over, gained a family, nearly lost that family, and found them again. He’s traveled the Continent, seen more loss and pain than he would have been able to imagine surviving in his youth, and watched an Empire crumble at a young girl’s feet. And he would do it all again if it meant ending up here, in this cottage on the coast with the people he loves.

He’s always been a person adept at finding the joys in the little things, but that joy is only heightened in the years post-Nilfgaard. He takes comfort in the sound of waves crashing against the shore, the press of Geralt’s hand on his waist in the morning, the smell of Yennefer’s lilac and gooseberry magic. Letters from Ciri and Dara, their rare visits from Eskel and Lambert, and even rarer visits from Triss and Tissaia. The glint of sunlight on Roach’s fur and the way Geralt’s entire face lights up whenever he rides her. The peaceful evenings when it’s just him, Yennefer, and Geralt in their cottage, each lost in their own little world, but still together.

The village folk don’t know what to make of their strange little family, none of whom have visibly aged much in the decades they’ve resided in their cottage. There’s plenty of speculation about whether Yennefer is married to Geralt or Jaskier, since it never occurs to anyone that all three of them could be as good as married. Yennefer enjoys fueling this speculation by being seen publicly and passionately kissing both Geralt and Jaskier on a regular basis. Her partners are only too happy to oblige.

They are all a little older and a little wearier than the people who joined forces to save a princess all those years ago. Geralt walks with a limp and has a scar over his eye. Yennefer’s chaos still surges and fades at random times. Jaskier has two fingers that healed crookedly after a long-ago night in a Nilfgaardian dungeon. But none of that matters when it’s just the three of them. All Jaskier needs is this home he shares with Yennefer and Geralt.

Though they all look forward to the times when two more join their number.

It’s a drizzly spring day when Geralt looks up suddenly in the middle of dressing the rabbit he caught for dinner. Composing a new song by the hearth, Jaskier immediately recognizes the look on his partner’s face. Geralt only gets that expression for one reason. Yennefer must come to the same conclusion as Jaskier, because she’s the first one to the door of the cottage, throwing it open and letting in a wave of cold air and rain. No one complains.

Coming towards them are two figures, one on foot and one on horseback. Dara has grown into a lanky young man, carrying a bundle of herbs that he undoubtedly picked up along the way, gathered from various roadsides and woodlands. Astride her latest black mare— she’s taken after Geralt and named every horse she’s ever had Kelpie— Ciri has her head thrown back in laughter. Her pale hair seems to glow, even on this cloudy day.

“They’re back,” Jaskier says, feeling something settle in his chest at the sight of them. He’s happy that Ciri and Dara have the opportunity to travel the Continent safely, that they can live their lives on their terms. He, Geralt, and Yennefer fought hard to make that possible. But it’s still nice to see them home.

Smiling, Yennefer starts forward, heading down the gravel path towards Ciri and Dara. Hand in hand, Geralt and Jaskier follow her.

The three of them go together to welcome the rest of their family home.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And with that, this series has come to a close. I hope the ending was worth the wait!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope it was worth the wait. Chapter 2 will be out on Thursday and after that, updates will be weekly on Thursday. Comments and kudos are always appreciated.
> 
> Feel free to find me on [Tumblr](https://ghostinthelibrarywrites.tumblr.com/) or Discord at ghostinthelibrary#1691


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